


'Cause You've Got An Awfully Long Way To Go

by paperclipbitch



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, M/M, Set During Season One, clichés clichés everywhere, really really really long and nothing happens omg, use of homophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Let me get this straight,” Kurt begins, resisting the urge to laugh, “you knocked up Finn’s girlfriend and you want to apologise to him by trying to make him </i>gay<i>?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [originally posted on LJ May 2010] Basically this is a stupidly long Puck/Kurt fic I wrote after the first half of the first season of _Glee_ happened. So relationships and characterisation are super oldschool.

“So, you want to bang Finn, right?”

This is not really what Kurt wants to hear first thing on a Monday morning (or, you know, _ever_ ), particularly not from a cheerful-looking Noah Puckerman. He glances around but Rachel is nowhere in sight, kind of implying that Puck is speaking to _him_. Which cannot be a good thing.

“Um,” Kurt manages, “what?”

“Or be banged by Finn, whatever, I don’t know what gets you off,” Puck shrugs, “I mean, you look like you bottom, but-”

“Oh my God,” Kurt says helplessly and it sort of comes out as a whimper. He must still be asleep, this cannot possibly actually be happening. Puck cornering him by his locker and discussing his sexual preferences is just too unlikely and ridiculous, even after all the other weird shit that’s gone down recently.

“Hey,” Puck says, “for all I know you get all animalistic and bossy in bed and that’s cool too, you know, if you want to top the shit out of Finn. I kind of doubt it ‘cause you’re carrying a girl’s purse and also you make that chick in _Legally Blonde_ look manly, but whatever works for you, I guess.”

Kurt prides himself on having a response for any given situation, but this is not a situation he thought would ever come up. Like, _ever_. He stares at Puck for a moment, mouth open in shock.

“This is _not_ a girl’s purse,” he manages at last.

“It looks it,” Puck tells him, shrugging. “Anyway, whatever, you totally want in Finn’s pants.”

He still isn’t waking up, so Kurt mans up and pulls himself together and says: “what makes you say that?” in a way that sounds nearly calm, even if his voice cracks a little in the middle.

“Please,” Puck scoffs, “you make hopeless little moon eyes at him all the damn time. You make Berry look disinterested.” Kurt just blinks at him. Puck folds his arms. “What? You kind of start noticing stuff when nobody actually talks to you.” He sounds defensive.

“Right,” Kurt says a little blankly. “Well, this conversation has been very disturbing, but the bell’s about to go-”

“Look,” Puck begins, catching his arm. Reflexively, Kurt flinches; Puck looks a little surprised and immediately lets go. “Hummel, you wanna fuck Finn, I can make that happen.”

Kurt would be shocked by this but he’s already been beaten into horrified submission by the rest of the conversation, so he just says: “really?”

“Yeah.” Puck smirks. “I know Finn better than anyone, I’ll tell you what you need to do to get him ripping off those girl jeans you’re wearing.”

_They’re not girl jeans_ , Kurt wants to say, but there’s really no point. Instead, he just says: “um, _why_?”

“‘Cause if I can get him laid maybe he’ll forgive me,” Puck says, like this is a perfectly normal thing to suggest, though his gaze is fixed on his sneakers.

“You couldn’t just bake him some slightly misshapen cupcakes?” Kurt can’t help asking. The bell goes and he doesn’t even hear it.

Puck rolls his eyes. “You in or you out?”

“Let me get this straight,” Kurt begins, resisting the urge to laugh, “you knocked up Finn’s girlfriend and you want to apologise to him by trying to make him _gay_?”

“Being a fag is a totally valid lifestyle choice,” Puck informs him like this is something Kurt doesn’t _know_ , “I got a pamphlet from Miss Pillsbury and everything. So don’t talk like a hater.”

“Oh dear God,” Kurt says quietly. If Puck put actual _research_ into this crazed idea than it kind of implies he’s genuinely serious. “Also, I’m pretty sure the pamphlet wasn’t called _‘So You Want To Be A Fag?’_ ” Puck doesn’t reply, just stares at him, waiting for a reply. Kurt wants to say ‘no’ but he’s a desperately virginal glee club member hopelessly in love with a fellow member and the pining is really sort of killing him. “Ok,” he sighs, feeling kind of like he’s selling his soul, “ok. I’m in.”

Huh. He’ll have to add _curious to the point of masochism_ to his list of personality traits.

“Great,” Puck says, flinging a terrifyingly manly arm around Kurt’s shoulders and dragging him off towards his class. “I’ll tell you what to do and you guys can have loads of hot gay sex and it’ll all work out great.”

Kurt pinches himself and it hurts, so no matter how surreal this is it is actually happening. This knowledge does not reassure him. “You’re not going to start singing _Popular_ , are you?”

Puck looks down at him. “Dude, what the fuck?”

Kurt no longer has any idea what’s going on anymore. “Nothing,” he mumbles, and wonders what the hell he’s let himself in for.

~

Shortly after sectionals Kurt decided he might as well officially come out to glee club, despite the fact that Mercedes knew and Rachel knew and everybody else had made fairly safe assumptions. Hell, Puck had apparently known since the first week of high school, when he’d started shoving Kurt against the lockers, and then continued in that vein by next shoving Kurt _inside_ lockers and following that up by putting him in dumpsters, spitting _fag_ at him at every available opportunity, and throwing various food products all over his beautiful, beautiful clothing. Still, he decided that he might as well put it out in the open, clear and truthful, in the spirit of all the other honesty that was flying around at the time.

In the end, he’d wound up coming out twice; once for the bemused and amused members of glee club, and again for Brittany a week later, since she spent far too much time dancing with him and hugging him and so on and he needed to make sure that she actually understood what ‘gay’ meant. Just in case. He didn’t need another rock through his baby’s window, after all.

The conversation had been somewhat confusing and Kurt had spent chunks of it trying not to laugh, but then most conversations with Brittany are like that and Kurt finds it oddly endearing.

“So...” he’d said eventually, “you remember me ‘coming out’ last week, right?”

Brittany scrunched up her brow in beautiful concentration. “Wasn’t that when Puck made you that ‘Congratulations On Being A Fag’ card?” 

Actually, yes. Kurt had been kind of non-plussed at the time, unsure whether it was an insensitive but nonetheless genuine attempt at a peace offering, or a new form of psychological bullying. One look at Puck had told him that Puck didn’t actually know either, and maybe that was why he’d kept it, hidden in a pile of back editions of _Vogue_. 

“Yes,” he’d replied, after a moment of once again freaking out over what the hell Puck thought he was doing, and after being privately impressed that Brittany had remembered that, given that she seemed to have problems remembering most other things in her life, up to and including how to spell her own name. “And you know what ‘gay’ means, right?”

“It means you’re like a girl,” Brittany informed him after a long, careful period of deliberation.

Kurt ended the conversation by admitting defeat, deciding Brittany was at no point going to try and go to a Sing-A-Long _Sound Of Music_ with him convinced it was a date, and somehow agreeing to go shoe shopping with her.

Admitting he was gay didn’t make a bit of difference – disturbing and unlikely greetings cards aside – but it had felt kind of good to get it out there anyway. And, well, maybe a very small part of him had thought that maybe Finn would corner him after glee one day and be all _I didn’t know you were gay, I just thought you were, like, really effeminate_ – oh, wait, Finn would never use _effeminate_ , better replace that with – _girly, but now I know that you really are gay, I can tell you that I’m madly in love with you, go to prom with me_. The rest of him laughed cruelly at that little part of him and threw blue slushies in its face for its naiveté, but still, the thought had been there. But all Finn had done was nod and smile vaguely and focus on his own traumatised stress because he wasn’t a father after all and everyone in his life had fucked him over.

Well, Kurt hadn’t, but it didn’t really seem like the time to point it out.

So, Kurt reasons, not paying any attention to the words spilling across the chalkboard at the front of the classroom, maybe that’s why he’s reached the desperate, rock-bottom point of allowing _Noah Puckerman_ , he of the casual homophobic slurs and the reason why Kurt keeps two changes of outfit and shampoo in his locker, to help him get a boyfriend. Of course, it’s entirely possible that Puck is finding a new way to humiliate him, since his social standing is at an all time low, but Kurt doesn’t think that he would bother to go to all that effort when putting Kurt in a dumpster would be so much quicker and would achieve pretty much the same end. In any case, most of the school seems to assume that everyone in glee is some degree of gay; even Quinn, pregnant and all, and Puck, who _got_ her pregnant in the first place, so really, Kurt can’t think of anything Puck could do to him with this stupid plan other than _not_ get him Finn which, really, Kurt is already doing pretty well at so at least it won’t be anything new.

“You haven’t been taking that fake vitamin stuff again?” Mercedes asks him after class, looking concerned. “Because Mrs Schuester really wasn’t a qualified nurse and that shit’s probably really dangerous.”

“Please,” Kurt scoffs, “I _know_ that.”

Mercedes arches a perfectly-waxed eyebrow, and Kurt takes a moment to admire his handiwork before she says: “didn’t stop you from buying that box of them.”

“There was a _sample sale_ ,” Kurt defends himself. “I had to do _something_ to get my hands on those boots, and anyway, I got you that scarf out of it so you have no right to complain. And I never took them again.”

“You sure?” Mercedes asks. “‘cause you didn’t move a muscle at all during English Lit and just stared at the board with that crazy intense look you had when you were stoned on vitamins.”

“They’re not vitamins,” Kurt points out. “And I’m not stoned. And I don’t get a crazy intense look either!”

It’s been a very distressing morning, all in all. Mercedes looks at him thoughtfully, seems to see some of this in his helpless expression, and links her arm through his. “I’ll give you a manicure at lunch,” she offers.

Kurt leans his aching head against her shoulder and wonders if today is McKinley-wide Confuse The Hell Out Of Kurt day and he didn’t get the memo.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

~

Glee club is... interesting. 

Quinn is looking miserably martyred, hands folded over her barely-curving stomach, mouth set in a miserable pout. Kurt offers her a smile which she doesn’t seem to notice, hunched in on herself and depressingly alone in the world since Finn turned his back and she kicked Puck to the kerb. Personally, Kurt feels he’d keep someone around who can make drugged cupcakes to earn money, but perhaps he’s setting his sights a little low. He has expensive tastes, after all. Still, he kind of hopes that Quinn has a vague idea of what she’s doing, though he suspects that she doesn’t.

Finn is also looking martyred, in a different way, and Kurt does honestly feel sympathetic because it’s been a pretty shitty school year for him thus far, although he does feel for Quinn because Finn, at least, has not been kicked out of his home or lost everything that apparently meant anything to do him and it not getting increasingly fat (thank _God_ , he mentally adds). Quinn probably _does_ have more reason to be looking martyred.

Puck is not looking at all martyred. In fact, he is looking at Kurt looking at Finn with a semi-calculating sort of expression that is, at best, disconcerting, and, at worse, downright terrifying. He catches Kurt looking and smirks, just a little, and Kurt re-evaluates the idea that this is some kind of elaborate plan that’s going to end in either humiliation or physical pain. Still, as long as it doesn’t end in buckets of pig blood – his dry-cleaning bills are already higher than his dad is really happy with – he figures he’ll just let it run its course.

“Puck is looking at you like he kind of wants to eat you,” Mercedes informs him quietly. Kurt raises an eyebrow at her and she sighs. “And not in a fun sort of way.”

“Maybe he’s lusting after my new jacket,” Kurt suggests.

“It is a nice jacket,” Mercedes agrees, and by the time they’ve finished discussing shopping, Puck has gone back to trying to impregnate Santana with his eyes. Unfortunately for him – or fortunately, depending on whether it’s his goal to have knocked up half the glee club by Easter or not – she’s too busy giggling over something with Brittany, the two of them sat suspiciously close together. Not for the first time, Kurt wonders if he really is correct in his assumption that he really is the Lone Gay in the glee club, but asking would probably get him attacked by Santana, and her fingernails look _sharp_.

“So, the pining is doing a real good job, huh?” Puck says, catching him by his car in the parking lot after practice.

Kurt glares at him until Puck cracks up laughing. It’s on the tip of his tongue to politely but firmly tell Puck to go away somewhere and die, but that probably wouldn’t help this whole exercise. Whatever this whole exercise is.

“Are you making a point or did you come here just to laugh at me?” Kurt asks. “Because if it’s the latter, you can do that anytime, and some of us actually have things to do with our evenings.”

Puck scowls. “I have things to do with my evening.”

“Oh, yes, of course, how could I forget your busy schedule of vandalism and destruction?” Kurt asks before he can think twice about it.

Puck looks angry, but Kurt doesn’t back down. It’s been a very weird, very long day and he’s already got a migraine so if Puck actually does punch him in the face it’s not like he won’t be taking Tylenol anyway. Well, there might be problems if he gets his nose broken, but he’ll deal with that when it comes to it.

“You think that’s all I do?” he asks in a soft, unreadable voice.

“You nailed all my lawn furniture to my _roof_ ,” Kurt reminds him.

Puck’s mouth softens a little. “Maybe we wanted to give you a roof garden?” he suggests.

Kurt wrenches his car door open. “I assume I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, fighting to keep his voice light rather than irritated, because of course Puck didn’t have to deal with his dad’s misery and confusion and anger at having his property screwed up like that. “If you could refrain from throwing slushies at me, I’d be grateful; my dry-cleaning bills for the week are already far too high.”

“Paranoid much, Hummel?” Puck smirks, leaning one hip against the hood of Kurt’s car. Kurt wonders vaguely if he’s going to have to drive _through_ Puck in order to extricate himself from this, and weighs the pros and cons of this before deciding that cleaning bits of squashed jock off his baby would probably be time consuming and also no good at all for his nail beds.

“I’m not paranoid,” Kurt corrects him, “I’m just not optimistic.”

He glares at Puck until the other boy straightens up, moving away from the car a little. “You might wanna remember I’ve never actually thrown a slushie at you,” Puck informs him quietly, a weird tilt of a smile over his lips. “Catch you later, Hummel.”

It isn’t until he’s halfway home that Kurt realises that, weirdly enough, Puck is _right_.

~

“What did Puck want yesterday?” Mercedes demands almost the minute Kurt sets foot inside the building the next morning. He sighs and pushes his tinted sunglasses further up his nose, wondering if the rest of his life is going to be _trying_ or if it’s just this week in particular.

“What?” he asks, opening up his locker to check his hair with the best would-be casual act he can put on.

“I saw him corner you in the parking lot yesterday,” Mercedes explains. “Do I need to give you my mace? I can give you my mace if you think he’s going to do it again.”

Tempting as the thought of mace-ing Puck is – and it really, _really_ is – Kurt decides he shouldn’t take her up on the offer. At least, not yet. Maybe next week, if things don’t get any less stupid and confusing. 

“It’s fine,” he says. And, because although he can tell Mercedes anything he really can’t tell her the truth about _this_ because she will point out all the ways that getting Puck to help him date Finn is stupid and dangerous and not a good idea at _all_ , and then Kurt will be forced to give it all up and pine for ever and ever and _ever_. Or something like that. “Um... I think he might want to be friends.”

Mercedes’ expression is sort of wonderful. “ _Friends_?” she repeats incredulously.

Kurt shrugs. “I kind of have to go along with it now. It can be a social experiment!” he adds brightly, struck with a brainwave.

Mercedes looks vaguely concerned. “Do you think this is a good idea?” she asks. “Because I don’t.”

“I don’t either,” Kurt sighs. “But look on the bright side; at least I can’t get pregnant.”

~

“You need to get Finn to see you outside of the whole _glee club_ thing,” Puck tells him a couple of days later, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Kurt looks down at the floor, flinches at the general hideousness of Puck’s sneakers, and decides that maybe he should stop judging people’s shoes before he talks to them because it generally results in him not wanting to talk to anyone at all.

“I let him see me in a football setting,” he points out, raising his eyes back to Puck’s face. The way Puck is semi-hovering over him implies that he’s threatening Kurt, at least to anyone not listening to the conversation, and Kurt almost wants to laugh but reflects that that would ruin the illusion and if Puck is so desperate to still look like he’s an untouchable bad-ass then who is Kurt to ruin that for him? He doesn’t have a whole lot else, after all.

“Yeah, and then you turned us all into singing, dancing fags,” Puck points out lightly, no malice in his tone. Kurt frowns, and Puck adds swiftly: “well, not _literally_.”

“It’s really ok to admit if the sight of me in my uniform got you hot under the collar,” Kurt responds, smirking just a little.

“Yeah, ‘cause you didn’t look like an idiot prancing about on the field at _all_ ,” Puck says.

Kurt briefly wonders if they’re flirting and then decides that that thought is too disturbing to even be entertained. They’re just not spitting insults at each other and it’s weird, that’s all there is going on here.

“If you’re implying that Finn needs to see me in a more _heterosexual_ sort of way then isn’t that sort of going to defeat the object of this exercise?” Kurt asks, determined to derail the conversation or at least shove it into a slightly different direction.

“I mean you should be around him somewhere where he isn’t surrounded by the wreckage of his previous relationships,” Puck replies.

Kurt considers this. “Wow,” he says, “that’s actually sensible. Maybe there is a brain underneath that mohawk after all.”

Puck rolls his eyes, says “think about it, Hummel,” in an undertone, and elbows him in the chest in a way that doesn’t really hurt and is therefore probably more for show than anything else before he walks off.

“Is he bullying you again?” Finn asks, popping out of nowhere, and Kurt spares a moment to pray to anyone and anything that might be out there for Finn _not_ to have heard any of their conversation. Then again, prior experience has shown him that Finn is not exactly ever quick on the uptake, so he might just get away with it. In any case, Puck is supposedly only helping Kurt out in order to get Finn talking to him again, so Kurt reasons that making Puck look bad in front of Finn is not going to help either of them.

“He wanted fashion advice,” Kurt lies calmly, just because the startled look on Finn’s face is nothing short of _pretty_.

“What?”

“He didn’t take it well when I suggested he ditch the mohawk,” Kurt sighs. “It’s tragic, really, but I guess he’s just set in his ways.”

It’s the first time Finn has looked vaguely amused when Puck’s name has been mentioned since the truth of Babygate first broke, as opposed to kind of homicidal and flushed. ‘Amused’ is definitely a better look on him, Kurt can’t help but reflect; he was starting to get kind of tired of ‘homicidal and flushed’.

“Are you on your way to Spanish?” he asks, needing to get Puck out of the conversation before Finn decides to go back to moping again. Not Moping Finn is always a novelty.

“Uh, yeah,” Finn says, sounding almost surprised about this, and Kurt swallows a smile because he doesn’t need to look condescending.

Kurt mentally scrabbles for something to say that isn’t about music or moisturiser. He can’t exactly talk gossip with Finn, either, seeing as how Finn is caught in the middle of one the school’s current favourite scandal. Something exciting and new needs to happen, because Kurt’s caught sight of Jacob’s blog a few times over the last couple of weeks – completely by accident, of _course_ – and the same repetition of Quinn being pregnant, Puck being the father, Finn _not_ being the father, and Rachel hovering around looking all miserable and guilty is starting to get old. It’s also making Kurt start pitying everyone involved, and he doesn’t like pity; it clashes too much with everything he wears, and in any case it’s not like any has ever been shown to _him_.

“I like Spanish,” he says, after a moment; not too long, and sure, it’s kind of a non-sequitur, but it could be worse. “It’s a beautiful language.”

Finn looks thoughtful. “It is, I guess,” he shrugs. “It’s just really confusing.”

Kurt is about to reply with... _something_ , anyway, when Finn catches sight of something at the end of the hall and his mouth thins. Kurt follows his gaze and sees Quinn, lost in the sea of humanity, head bowed and books clutched to her chest like a shield. She looks sad, lost, and Kurt smiles at her because it’s all he can do, offer her a little piece of support. After all, they’re similar enough in height that they’re frequently paired together in glee routines; Kurt held her quivering hand during _Keep Holding On_ , has watched her cry more times than he’s seen anyone cry except perhaps himself. Quinn can be a bitch, has been ignoring Kurt for as many years as Puck has been chucking him into dumpsters, but no one deserves what she’s going through and no one deserves to go through it alone either.

Quinn smiles back, looking almost surprised, and when he glances up at him, Kurt can see Finn is looking determinedly the other way. _Surrounded by the wreckage of his previous relationships_ indeed, Kurt reflects, and is actually relieved when they get to Spanish and he can slink into his seat and listen to Mr Schuester trying to make them care about the pluperfect.

~

“So, how’s this new friendship going with Puck?” Mercedes asks him a few days later. “I mean, you aren’t walking in with blue raspberry slushie on your face every morning-”

“Puck has never actually slushied me,” Kurt points out absently, adding an extra spritz of hairspray to a lock on top that will not go right before slamming his locker door closed. 

When he turns, he finds Mercedes is staring at him, looking a mixture of stunned and concerned.

“You don’t _like_ him, do you?” she asks in an urgent whisper, looking a little horrified.

“What? No!” Kurt protests. “Puck doesn’t have a single redeeming feature. At _all_.”

Mercedes’ expression turns to one of relief. “Good. ‘Cause, you know, you’ve already got one stupid crush on a straight boy we’ve got to snap you out of, you don’t need another one.”

“I don’t need snapping out of it,” Kurt protests, “and I’m offended that you’d think I would have such poor taste as to fall for a man whose idea of high-end fashion is _Target_.”

Mercedes laughs. “Well, as long as you know what you’re doing...”

“I do,” Kurt assures her, because maybe if he can convince Mercedes he can convince himself.

It’s not working so far, but if he keeps it up it just might work out.

“So,” Puck says, after glee practice has let out and the choir room is empty, “I don’t have any redeeming features.”

All of Kurt’s instincts are screaming at him to get underneath the piano, curl into a small ball to provide as small a target as possible, and beg for forgiveness.

Instead, because apparently he has no idea of self-preservation whatsoever, he shrugs, meets Puck’s gaze, and says: “well, you haven’t done anything so far to prove me wrong.”

Puck considers this. “I stopped putting you in the dumpster,” he offers, shrugging, like this is the epitome of kindness. Kurt supposes that, in Puck’s world, it probably is.

“Because Finn told you to,” Kurt reminds him. “And, fine, you’ve never slushied me, and I am grateful for that, but you have made Rachel’s life a living hell of ice and syrup since we got here, and, ok, I kind of want to ruin all her clothes with slushies too, but I at least have _fashion_ as my excuse.”

Puck looks kind of amused and not like he wants to punch Kurt in the face, which is always a plus.

“And my idea of high fashion is Target?”

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop on people’s private conversations if you don’t want to hear things you won’t like,” Kurt tells him. “And: yes. You make me want to poke out my own eyes whenever I look at you. Your taste in clothing offends me.”

Puck smirks. “You’re kind of bitchy, you know?”

“You hadn’t _noticed_?” Kurt asks, because, really, that’s all anyone knows about him at this school. Ask any random kid, and you’d get a combination of _fag_ , _bitch_ and _occasionally wears corsets, wtf_.

He gets a shrug in reply. “Until glee, I pretty much just thought of you as _that fairy kid_.” Puck’s mouth twists. “I pretty much continued thinking of you as that _after_ glee, as well.”

“That’s all right,” Kurt says, “I still think of you as _that Neanderthal with a lamentable haircut_.” He shrugs easily. “I suppose people you torment don’t get to have personalities?”

“Miss Pillsbury asked me that last week,” Puck tells him. He’s avoiding the answer, and avoiding it badly, but Kurt doesn’t particularly care, so he lets him get away with it.

“What did you tell her?”

“I faked a sneeze all over her desk,” Puck replies. “By the time she’d finished weeping and spraying disinfectant everywhere she didn’t really want a response.”

It’s cruel, but Kurt catches himself laughing anyway. “I puked on her shoes once,” he says before he can stop himself.

Puck actually looks impressed, which is weird. Kurt has never impressed him before, not even when he was kicking field goals like it’d be going out of fashion faster than last season’s Versace. “When was this?” he asks.

“I was drunk,” Kurt mutters, not really wanting to get into it. It was a valid life experience, and he tries not to think about it, because _ew_. Also, there’s something about calling your teacher Bambi that’s kind of humiliating and dumb.

“You were drunk around Miss P?” Puck echoes, amusement flickering on his face. “ _Damn_ , Hummel, I underestimated you.”

Kurt sniffs disdainfully. “Of course you have.” He looks between the two of them, sitting comfortably on chairs in the empty choir room, and hastily adds: “we’re not bonding, by the way.”

Puck snickers. “Relax, we can have a conversation without it suddenly becoming some huge queer lovefest. I don’t bite.” He seems to rethink this. “Well, I _do_ , but only if they turn up at my place with their panties in their purse and a bottle of cheap wine and ask me _really_ nicely.”

“Is that what you did to Quinn?” Kurt asks. He knows he shouldn’t have said it, it slips out without him even thinking, and Puck’s entire face winces.

“Nice,” he says softly. “I guess I deserved that.”

Kurt doesn’t want to feel bad for hurting Puck’s feelings, considering how many times Puck has hurt _his_ feelings over the years, how many nights Kurt has spent crying in his room and furiously moisturising afterwards, angry for not being able to fit in and not _wanting_ to fit in and wanting to walk down a hall just once without having someone shove him or spit _fag_ in his direction. 

“You didn’t,” he says. “I might be a bitch, but I do try to avoid being _cruel_.”

“What do you call ho-ing up Rachel and then letting her loose on Finn?” Puck asks, expression softening a little, back to its usual look of sternness and invulnerability. Kurt doesn’t bother asking how Puck knows that; it’s probably gotten out by now to some degree or another.

“Divine justice,” he replies. 

Puck actually laughs, genuine and warm. After a moment, he says: “have you actually had a conversation with Finn that wasn’t about skin products or glee club? ‘Cause you’ve got to give me something to work with here.”

Kurt sighs, and turns his attention to his cuticles. “He hates Spanish,” he provides.

“I know,” Puck says, and then his expression becomes almost thoughtful. Kurt waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.

“Well,” Kurt says, “nice as it is to be in here without Rachel correcting all of us on our singing, I promised my dad I’d help out at the garage after school, so-”

“Your dad owns a garage?” Puck asks, looking interested. His gaze sweeps over Kurt, over today’s delicious outfit with its skintight jeans and Armani jacket, and his expression switches to incredulity. “I’m not really seeing you as a greasemonkey.”

“I have layers,” Kurt protests. “And also overalls. Which I accessorised. With rhinestones.”

“Of course you did,” Puck replies, something almost fond in his tone. It catches them both by surprise, and Puck swiftly adds: “so, you know, tomorrow you should actually try talking to Finn instead of hovering about like a freshman girl with a crush.”

Kurt gets to his feet and picks up his bag. It’s been a weird afternoon. “Fuck you, Puckerman,” he says, without venom.

“Really?” Puck asks, leaning lazily back in his chair. “I still think it would be the other way around. You might wanna man up a little if you want to be a plausible top, you know.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Kurt says, and does his best at sweeping out with dignity.

Puck’s amused laughter behind him sort of ruins it, but it could be worse.

~

Mostly just to spite Puck, Kurt spends half of the next glee club having an in depth conversation with Finn about baseball – which he may or may not have carefully researched on google the night before – and he’s so busy concentrating on remembering all the names and teams in the right order he sort of forgets to be uncomfortable and blushy around him. Kurt sort of has to give himself snaps for that, and when he glances at Puck later, the boy looks grudgingly impressed. Finn, for his part, is looking slightly happier – as opposed to martyred and miserable and likely-to-start-chucking-furniture, like he usually does during rehearsals, and, frankly, at most other times – and not at all uncomfortable. 

Kurt is never, ever, at any point going to tell Puck that maybe he was right. He doesn’t need his ego feeding any more.

His efforts, unfortunately, do not go unnoticed by his friends.

“Can’t we just hire you a male prostitute and get you laid?” Mercedes asks when they’re over at hers later, watching movies with Brittany and Tina.

“It would probably have more future than your crush on Finn,” Tina adds in what is possibly meant to be a supportive voice. It isn’t particularly supportive, and at some point Kurt is going to point this out to her. Right now, he’s focusing on looking at her and Mercedes like they have _lost their minds_. Maybe there’s something in the microwave popcorn other than salt and fat and little flakes that are going to be stuck in his teeth for the rest of the night.

Also, when did his crush on Finn become common knowledge? 

“You could hire Puck,” Brittany offers into the silence. There’s a moment where they all just stare at each other, stunned, before Tina and Mercedes start laughing, hysterical, sprawled across the sofa.

“I hate my life,” Kurt says to no one in particular.

“Santana called him a male prostitute,” Brittany adds thoughtfully, eyes on the screen as the credits roll, words dripping out of her as though she isn’t really thinking about them. Kurt supposes that this _is_ Brittany, after all; she probably isn’t. 

Tina and Mercedes are still giggling, looking at Kurt as though expecting him to say something like _let’s invite Puck over and slip roofies in his diet coke_ , which, by the way, _no_. He will not ever at any point say that, and not just because he has no idea how to get hold of roofies.

“The movie’s over,” he says, voice brittle, “what shall we watch next?”

Tina and Mercedes exchange looks. “ _Pretty Woman_!” they burst out.

Kurt flings a pillow at them.

~

The choir room is quiet and for once it’s just nice to get the space to himself. Kurt plays random strings of notes on the piano, letting each one soak through him until he’s calm, breathing easily. Before he really knows what he’s doing, the tune is spilling out from under his fingers.

“ _Something has changed within me, something is not the same…_ ”

Hell, this is the room where he threw the diva-off, he may as well demonstrate to the uncaring chairs and light fittings that he knows what he’s doing, that he can do it perfectly. That he deserves it all just as much as Rachel does and one day, when he’s out of here, he’ll demonstrate that.

“ _And you won’t bring me down…_ ”

He nails the high F, freaking nails it like he does every time, and even though there is no one there to see it and no one even cares about it anymore, another one of Rachel’s vocal victories tucked away and forgotten, Kurt can’t help feeling the flush of some kind of misplaced triumph.

The slow clapping from the doorway makes him turn around, immediately blushing. Puck is leaning against the doorframe, an unreadable smile flickering across his mouth. 

“You can do it,” he observes.

“Well, yes,” Kurt replies, folding his arms just a little defensively across his chest. “Of course I can.”

“You couldn’t do it at the diva off,” Puck points out on the smallest of smirks, coming inside and letting the door bang shut behind him. 

Kurt knows he doesn’t have to defend himself here but his pride is stung so before he really thinks it through he says: “I _could_ do it, I just chose _not_ to.”

Puck looks confused, leaning on the piano lid a careful distance from him. “Dude, why?”

“I didn’t want the solo,” Kurt replies calmly, shrugging, as though this should be obvious.

Puck’s frown deeps. “Again, _why_?”

Kurt is not having this conversation, certainly not with Puck who has, so far this week, called him a fag on at least six occasions, and that was easily the most flattering word to come out of his mouth.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says quietly, hitching his bag onto his shoulder and deciding to go and find Mercedes so they can mercilessly mock the outfits of the freshmen girls who think they’re so cool but really have _no_ idea how to actually use make-up without shovelling it on in an amusing fashion. He’d try to correct them, but then where would he get his daily entertainment from? He tries to push past Puck to get to the door, but then he makes his mistake, because he can’t resist muttering: “you wouldn’t understand anyway.”

Puck grabs his shoulder and Kurt manfully manages not to flinch. Puck turns him around, fingers digging in a little too hard, and says in a voice that is low and just a little dangerous: “try me.”

Kurt pulls himself free and tries to compose himself; irrational anger is flooding through him but he can’t be angry when he says this. He can be disdainful and haughty and patronising but he _can’t_ be angry.

“My dad got an anonymous phonecall at work,” Kurt says, quiet and low because he’s never told anyone this before, not even Mercedes, keeping his gaze on his shoes. “Telling him his son was a fag.”

He can practically _hear_ the wheels turning in Puck’s head, but he doesn’t look at him because he doesn’t want to see the confusion there, the blatant lack of comprehension. It’ll hurt and it’ll annoy him and he doesn’t want either of those things.

“…he didn’t know?” Puck asks, and his tone is careful and thoughtful. Kurt looks up, surprised; it was more than he was expecting. He was sort of preparing himself for a _well, duh_.

“Of course he knows,” Kurt says dismissively, swallows, and forces himself to explain. He’ll say this, and then he’ll leave, and he’ll be extra bitchy to some freshmen and maybe he won’t get a slushie in the face before he goes home and then his day won’t be a total loss after all. “But… there’s a difference between _knowing_ it and _hearing_ it.” Kurt manages a smile that feels ugly and adds: “He was so cut up and I couldn’t do that to him again. I figured anything else that was going to draw attention to how much of a _fag_ I am-” he spits the word and Puck blinks, as though surprised at just how much venom Kurt can put into one little three-letter word “-wasn’t a good idea. So I blew the note, ok?”

He shoulders past Puck once more, reasoning that he can manage a pretty decent flounce-out if he works at it, but he can’t leave when Puck says, sounding almost surprised: “it bothers you, doesn’t it?”

Kurt spins around, warm anger spreading through him again and this time he makes no effort to quash it. Because, really, of _all the fucking things to say_.

“No,” he says, voice utterly steady, “no, it doesn’t. Because I won’t let it.” Puck frowns, but there’s something uneasy in his expression. “I can clean my clothes and I can wash my hair and I can put ice on the bruises and I can throw away my slushie-covered notes and I can talk to the janitor when obscenities are markered onto my locker.” He smiles slightly, cold and nasty. “But if I let those words get under my skin then they’ll get comfortable and then they’ll still _be_ there when I get out of here and no one puts me in dumpsters or throws food at me just because I know how to accessorise. And I _won’t_ let that happen to me.” He clears his throat, hitches his bag up a little more onto his shoulder, and finishes with: “so no, it doesn’t bother me, it never bothers me when even people who loosely claim to be my friends or my teammates use ugly, hurtful, prejudiced words without even thinking. Why would it?”

And he manages a dignified walk out that even Rachel would be proud of; he doesn’t look back and Puck doesn’t call after him and beneath the queasy feeling in his stomach Kurt sort of suspects that, this time, he might have _won_. 

He just sort of assumed that winning would feel _better_ than this.

~

Kurt doesn’t want their little not-quite-argument to always be there, an issue between them; in fact he pretty much wants to pretend that it never happened at all, so he says ‘hey’ to Puck the next morning like nothing’s wrong and, after a moment, Puck manages a slightly uncertain ‘hey’ in reply.

It takes him a little over a week to realise that Puck hasn’t used the word _fag_ – or any other word commenting on homosexuality – again.

~

Quinn corners him after math one afternoon, looking particularly doe-eyed and vulnerable, though her mascara and slightly-too-hippy-to-really-work braids are immaculate.

“Can I ask you for a favour?” she says softly. Her expression of pleading would put Meredith Grey to shame so Kurt suspects that whatever she asks for he’s going to attempt to try and provide her with it. In any case, he gets on pretty well with Quinn; much as he adores Mercedes, he suspects that Quinn is really the only person in glee club who is just as bitchy as he is. Mercedes has a line; he firmly suspects Quinn doesn’t. Really, they could probably rule the world if they weren’t getting distracted by things like Teen Pregnancy and Finn Hudson and Sporadically Despising Each Other.

“Sure,” he replies, a little wary. “What do you need?”

Quinn catches her lower lip between her teeth for a moment and then practically whispers: “can you drive me to the clinic?” She grimaces delicately. “I don’t have a ride and I don’t really want to ask Mr Schue after...” she trails off.

Kurt has nothing better to do and Quinn really is looking at her most breakable, so he smiles and says: “of course I can.”

They’re quiet in the car; Quinn scrolls listlessly through his ipod, filling the car with snatches of music, her free hand flattened almost unconsciously over her stomach. Kurt can’t think of anything to say that won’t be endlessly awkward but the silence is peaceful rather than uncomfortable so he doesn’t try and break it.

Quinn hesitates when they reach the clinic. “You could, um, come with me if you wanted,” she offers, not looking at him, and Kurt might be relentlessly self-centred but he can still hear the plea she’ll never, _never_ voice. It scares him a little; Quinn Fabray, laid vulnerable.

“Ok,” he says, careful to sound light. “Beats waiting around in my car overstyling my hair, anyway.”

Quinn manages a smile and they walk in together, sit in the waiting room in a silence that’s kind of tense now; Quinn’s fingers have curled up into her palms and she’s staring fixedly at a point on the wall. Kurt looks around; there are a few other couples in here, some talking to the bump or holding hands or arguing good-naturedly over nursery paint schemes. The receptionist is eyeing Kurt’s new babies – his indigo skinny jeans that were a bitch to get into but which look so damn fabulous on – and clearly trying to work out if he was the one who impregnated Quinn. He looks away.

“Have you thought of a name yet?” he asks, when Quinn’s knuckles have gone so white that he’s sort of scared she’s going to end up drawing blood.

She shakes her head. “Finn, um,” her lips quiver, but she pulls herself together and continues: “Finn wanted to call her ‘Drizzle’.”

Kurt swallows down a laugh because, well, it’s kind of endearing in a very messed-up way. 

“She’ll end up in dumpsters if you call her that,” he tells Quinn quietly, and she shoots him a quick, almost guilty look before she smiles. 

“Do you have any suggestions?” she asks, adding: “if you say ‘Elphaba’ I’ll slushie you myself.”

Kurt opens his mouth to spill out the name of every last woman he’s ever admired, from Mercedes to Vivienne to Gaga to Quinn herself, when the door opens and a nurse says: “Quinn Fabray?”

The expression on Quinn’s face is nothing short of pure terror but she gets up and walks over, Kurt following. Her apprehension is contagious but he’s curious too; he’s not sure he’ll ever be in this situation unless he does what Rachel’s infamous Two Gay Dads did with the turkey baster and the surrogate and stuff – and if he did something like that he might end up with a mini Rachel and God, no one wants that – and at least it’s a life experience.

The doctor looks doubtfully at Kurt. “Is he-”

“He’s a friend,” Quinn replies firmly, getting up on the table. Kurt reflects that Quinn has been to this clinic with Finn, Puck and now Kurt in quick succession and it must look kind of, well, slutty.

The doctor looks Kurt up and down, gaze lingering on his perfectly tied scarf and manicured fingernails, and says: “I can see that.”

Quinn’s eyes widen slightly and Kurt swallows because, you know, he is just sick of _all_ of this. And he’s not even sure what ‘this’ is, he just knows he wants less of it. Still, he’s here to support his accidentally-pregnant maybe sort of friend/enemy so he merely sniffs in disdain and moves to sit on a stool beside her as Quinn pulls up her loose white top. She flinches when the cold gel is squeezed onto her stomach and her fingers twitch reflexively. Without even thinking about it, Kurt slips his hand into hers and squeezes. Quinn squeezes back, and a little smile curves across her mouth.

There’s a wobbly black and white image on the screen, something which kind of looks like a misshapen blob if you squint, but the doctor points out the girl’s head and her developing limbs. Quinn is crushing Kurt’s hand by now, nails digging in so hard he knows he’s going to have to get his moisturising gloves out tonight, and he doesn’t even care. He stares at the little shape on the screen that’s going to become a _person_ one day, heart beating too hard in his chest, and a little voice in the back of his head breathes with something approaching awe: _that’s_ Puck’s _baby_.

Kurt can’t adequately explain what the voice is going on about or why his stomach turns right over, but he decides not to try and work it out. He looks at Quinn and then has to look away; the mixture of love and terror on her features is too private, something he doesn’t want to observe, something he _shouldn’t_ observe. Instead, he looks at the baby – who, he realises, he’s already thinking of as _Drizzle_ , despite the fact it’s a ridiculous name that no one should call their kid – until Quinn’s grip loosens a little and he gain regain some of the circulation in his fingers.

Quinn doesn’t let go of Kurt’s hand even when the machine is switched off and she’s handed a paper towel to clean the goo off with. She wipes herself off using her free hand, talks a little to the doctor while Kurt feels the oxygen seep back into the room, and they eventually leave the room still hand in hand. Quinn says nothing and she’s walking without leaning on him, very nearly steady, but Kurt takes one look at her face and the way her mouth is shivering and hustles them into the nearest bathroom.

He locks them into a stall and Quinn buries her face in his shoulder and sobs and sobs and sobs. Kurt rests his cheek against her hair and strokes his hands up and down the soft wool of her cardigan and hums _Here Comes The Sun_ until she quietens down. Then he helps her repair her make-up and smooth her hair until she’s collected again.

“I’ve made your life hell for years,” she whispers eventually.

Kurt pulls the door open, startling a woman about to come in, her eyes darting anxiously to the ladies’ sign, and grins over his shoulder at Quinn. “Yes, but I’m a saint,” he tells her, and is a little relieved when Quinn cracks a smile.

On the way home, she cheers up enough to sing along to the _Wicked_ soundtrack with him. Kurt hits every note in _Defying Gravity_ and Quinn raises a surprised eyebrow, but she doesn’t ask, which Kurt is eternally grateful for.

“I think ‘Glinda’ is a valid name choice,” Kurt suggests brightly after a while.

She laughs. “I suppose it’s better than ‘Drizzle’.”

Kurt glances at her. “Much as it pains me to say anything less than derogatory about anyone; you’re going to be fine, Quinn. More than fine.”

Her teeth flash white. “Thank you.” She sounds like she means it.

~

“You vanished kind of fast after practice yesterday,” Puck observes the next morning, catching up with Kurt in the corridor.

It occurs to Kurt that he should find this weird and that a couple of months ago he would’ve been terrified that Puck was sort of keeping tabs on his movements. Now that they’re kind of weird messed up friends, though, he finds it far too normal.

“Are you stalking me, Puckerman?” he enquires lightly. “I’ll think about being flattered.”

Puck rolls his eyes and shoves his shoulder. “Busy making eyes at Finn? He caught on yet? Or are we going to have to move onto phase two?”

For a strange moment, Kurt desperately doesn’t want to be having this conversation. “I gave Quinn a ride to the clinic,” he says instead.

A look Kurt has never seen before crosses Puck’s face; it reminds him of the nakedly vulnerable expression Quinn wore yesterday and he swiftly fixes his attention on the hall floor.

“She ok?” Puck asks quietly, and Kurt immediately knows that Puck isn’t asking about Quinn.

“Yeah,” he says, looking up and offering Puck a smile. “Yeah, she’s doing fine.”

“That’s good,” Puck says, nodding. 

This is fast becoming a _moment_ here and Kurt isn’t entirely sure what to do about that, so it’s very nearly a relief when he gets a faceful of cherry slushie, cold and sharp.

“Stupid little fag,” Karofsky spits on his way past.

A frown creases Puck’s forehead but Mercedes and Tina sweep out of nowhere to bear Kurt off to the girls’ bathroom and he doesn’t look back. They help him wash syrup off his face and out of his hair and they harmonise on _Chiquitita_ – which, enjoyable as this whole _Mamma Mia!_ thing is, Kurt really _doesn’t_ want to be Meryl Streep in this scenario, he just doesn’t – and he’s all scrubbed and pretty by the time math class comes around, so he lets it go as he always does.

~

Later that afternoon, Puck is late for glee.

Ordinarily this wouldn’t be much of a problem, but he’s taking the male solo with Rachel in their latest number – which has really, _really_ pissed Finn off, but Kurt gets the feeling Mr Schue has some kind of really complicated reconciliation plan going on so pretty much trusts him – and they can’t practice properly without Puck.

After about five minutes, Finn starts kicking chairs. “This is so _like_ him,” he grits. “He just keeps screwing up and screwing up, no matter how many chances you give him.”

“What chances have you given him?” a voice asks.

When the room falls silent and everyone turns to look at Kurt, he belatedly realises that it was _him_.

Finn looks confused and not a little angry. “What?”

“I said, what chances have you given Puck?” Kurt repeats. “I mean, you haven’t even given him a chance to explain-”

“What is there to explain?” Finn spits. “He got my girlfriend drunk and screwed her.”

“And don’t you think he’s paying for that now?” Kurt demands. He glances at Quinn, who has gone very white, but she manages a tiny smile for Kurt. “He screwed up. Quinn screwed up. But they’ve been punished enough by themselves without you adding to it.”

“Oh, so I’m meant to sit by and be _happy_ for them?” Finn is all but shouting now and even Mr Schuester is staring on in horrified silence. “I should be supportive of my best friend and my ex because they’re having a baby together that for kind of a while I thought was mine?”

Kurt hasn’t felt like this since he was drugged up to the eyeballs on that vitamin stuff Mr Schue’s wife was handing out like candy. He feels weirdly detached from the whole situation, dizzy and disembodied.

“No,” he says, and manages not to bring up all that stuff he learned in confidence from Finn while they were working on their ballads, “no, but you can’t be bitter for the rest of your life about it.”

“What the fuck would you know about any of it?” Finn demands with uncharacteristic venom, taking two steps towards Kurt. Kurt does not back down, though God, he’d love to. “Really, what the fuck would you know?”

Mr Schue opens his mouth and Mercedes’ voice drifts towards them: “oh no he did _not_.”

“I don’t,” Kurt says simply, “but Quinn is falling apart and Puck is more screwed up than usual and yeah, yeah it’s tough, Finn, but you’ve got to be the better man here because you’re the only one who can be.”

Finn looks confused and still far too angry and the tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Kurt risks a glance at his fellow members, most of whom have their mouths wide open in shock because Kurt doesn’t _do_ this, he doesn’t. 

The door opens. “Sorry, Mr Schue,” Puck says breathlessly, “I was helping...” he trails off, taking in Kurt backed up against the piano, Finn barely a foot from him looking simultaneously murderous and wretched, Mr Schuester standing sort of near them utterly speechless, and the rest of the group watching from the chairs in stunned silence.

Kurt doesn’t want to look at Puck. He doesn’t. When he does risk a glance, though, he can see Puck is flushed and sweating and there’s a smudge of dried blood under his nose and the collar has been mostly torn off his shirt, hanging pathetically. This whole situation is so ugly and such a mess that Kurt just wants to hide his face in his hands and weep. Instead, he straightens himself up to his full height and manages: “Mr Schuester, I promised my dad I’d help with some stuff this afternoon, I’ve got to leave practice early.”

Mr Schue visibly pulls himself together and says: “right, Kurt, of course.”

Kurt picks his bag up and leaves, aware everyone is watching him intently as he does so.

Mercedes calls him barely an hour later, her voice rich in sympathy and also in confusion. “Do you have _any_ idea what you’re doing?” she asks eventually, sounding genuinely curious.

“No,” Kurt replies, and it comes out as a wail as he lies on his bed and stares at his ceiling and tries to work out at which point confronting Finn about his Inner Pain And Angst And Anger And Stuff became a viable idea. “No, I have no idea.”

Mercedes sighs, all calm and collected and awesome and this is why he loves her. “I’ll be right behind you,” she tells him. “Right behind you with tissues and candy and a shotgun, if it comes to that. ‘k, honey?”

“I _love_ you,” Kurt says fervently.

“Of course you do,” Mercedes says.

Later, he gets a text from Puck: _u ok man?_

Kurt groans and turns his phone off.

~

Dave Karofsky is wandering the corridors the next day with a split lip and two black eyes and a white bandage across his nose. He’s not talking about it and the school is thick with rumours.

Kurt catches sight of him at the end of a hall, all battered and scowling, and in that moment, he _knows_. The realisation leaves him a little light-headed and he spins on his heel, abruptly leaving Mercedes and Tina behind as he goes looking for the one person he thought he was actually going to try and avoid today.

Puck is skulking by his locker, casually checking out two nearby Cheerios. The knuckles of his right hand are swollen and bruised purple.

Kurt walks up to him, says nothing, and waits. Puck glances around at the mostly-empty hallway and then goes over to the two Cheerios. Kurt doesn’t catch what he says, but the tone is insinuating and downright filthy. The girls give Puck disgusted looks and hurry off, leaving them basically alone.

“Please,” Kurt says quietly, “please tell me you didn’t beat up Karofsky because he threw a slushie at me.”

“I didn’t,” Puck replies, and Kurt can see he’s telling the truth, though he shifts uncomfortably.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Then _please_ tell me you didn’t beat him up because he called me a fag.”

Puck smiles crookedly. “Only if you can tell me you didn’t whale on Finn in front of the entire glee club because of _me_.”

Kurt would bury his head in his hands but his foundation is perfect this morning and he’s not smudging it for anybody. He settles for not looking directly at Puck, staring instead at his damaged knuckles. Kurt can actually picture Puck beating up Karofsky, shouting, calling him God-knows-what. He’s man enough to admit that the image is kind of hot, in a fucked-up sort of way.

He slumps against the lockers in a way that’s probably a little melodramatic. “Oh _God_ ,” he groans, “oh God, I need so much therapy.”

“It was about time someone told Finn to grow the fuck up,” Puck observes lightly. “Of course, we’re now going to have to overcome that little obstacle to get him into your pants, but it’s doable.”

Kurt isn’t listening. “You broke Karofsky’s _nose_ ,” he says helplessly.

“He tore the collar off my shirt,” Puck protests, like it’s a valid excuse.

“It was an ugly shirt that needed burning anyway,” Kurt mutters dismissively. He looks up at Puck to find the other boy looks mostly amused and a little awkward. “But, Puck, you _broke his nose_ because he called me a fag! I mean...” He trails off, aware he has no idea what he wants to say.

“Don’t make such a big deal out of it,” Puck shrugs. “Also, you’re going to be late for class.”

They shoulder through groups of students in silence; after a moment Kurt realises that Puck is walking him to Spanish, despite the fact Puck isn’t in his class and doesn’t even take the subject. He thinks about arguing, but doesn’t.

“It didn’t even _bother_ me,” he says when they get to his classroom. 

Puck shrugs. “Yeah, it did.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Catch you later, Hummel.”

Kurt watches him go and realises that he genuinely has no idea what’s going on anymore.

~


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt is really, really faily at confrontation so he tracks Finn down at lunch to try and apologise for what was quite clearly some sort of aneurism or a side effect of ingesting nothing but cranberry juice for the last twenty-four hours or something (apparently it’s going to make him fabulously slender just in time for the new Marc Jacobs line; Mercedes is less than impressed with him, but that’s a whole other thing).

“Don’t worry about it,” Finn cuts him off before Kurt can get into a long explanation of how his latest moisturiser must have seeped into his brain and poisoned him. “Really, Kurt, I... I needed to hear that.”

Kurt decides it wouldn’t be tactful or conducive to his apology so say well, yeah, this is true, and then wonders when he decided to become Team Puck in this whole ridiculous glee club Babygate split thing. He shouldn’t be Team Puck (and, by extension, Team Quinn, although she seems to be trying to keep her head down and not get too involved in all this, and Kurt can’t blame her), especially considering how that’s completely the opposite side to Team Finn. Huh. It’s all rather worrying and he’s going to have to properly examine his feelings when he gets home and find out exactly what they think they’re doing, because he’s gotten away thus far without identifying with Puck in the slightest and he was kind of completely and absolutely fine with not sympathising with Puck and his inherent manwhore ways.

“I could’ve been more tactful,” he says instead, carefully avoiding agreeing with Finn. Finn probably won’t notice anyway. 

Finn shrugs. “Hell, my whole life seems to be playing out in public at the moment,” he says. “I guess I should just be grateful Jacob wasn’t there with a tape recorder.”

For the millionth time, Kurt is fervently grateful that the rest of the school has no interest in his personal life whatsoever, apart from the gay thing, and even then the interest only really exists in the form of hypothetical mockery and casual homophobia, and the student body has no interest in him at all except to occasionally discuss his more outlandish clothing choices with looks of confusion and disdain. Sure, Rachel might have issues with being a nobody and Kurt frequently hates being such a non-entity that he’s not even unpopular (though everyone in the school knows his name; maybe infamy really is the answer), but right now it’s sort of nice that he isn’t the subject of all gossip ever. 

“I could wear a dress to school tomorrow,” he offers. “Generate some new gossip for the day.”

Finn looks startled and then laughs. “Thanks, man, but I’m pretty sure I couldn’t stop the guys from ripping you limb from limb if you did.”

This is sadly true. Kurt has no idea if Puck would leap to his defence or not, and he doesn’t want to bet on it, but even with Puck and Finn beating up half the jocks in the school Kurt would probably still find himself needing a hospital by the end of the day.

Besides, contrary to what he’s given to understand is popular belief, he doesn’t actually own a dress.

“Well, you know, the offer’s there if you want it,” he says, and hears the flirtatious overlay in his voice without consciously being aware of putting it there. Maybe spending protracted periods of time around Puck makes you automatically hit on people, whether you intend to or not. Maybe there is something about Puck that is contagious (and not just the various kinds of STDs he’s rumoured to have contracted as a result of fucking everything that moves in Lima, though Kurt is pretty sure Santana just started that rumour because it was a wet Tuesday and there was nothing better going on).

Finn doesn’t seem to notice that Kurt is flirting, which is depressing but nothing new. “Sure,” he says vaguely. Kurt follows his eyeline and sees that Finn is staring at Quinn, sitting looking mistreated and defensively alone, winding a lock of hair absently around one finger. Kurt simultaneously admires and hates her for laying it on as thick as she is; he’s coming to realise that, scared, freaked and angry as she is, she doesn’t feel nearly as martyred as she’s pretending she is to the rest of the world. It kind of gives him hope that the real Quinn Fabray is still safe somewhere in there, beneath the pastel cardigans and the betrayed eyes, because she was too perfect a specimen of self-preservation and social determination to just fade away.

“You could go and talk to her, you know,” Kurt tells Finn, even though he can hear Puck in his head telling him that if he gets Finn and Quinn back together then he’s really fucking blown it. 

Finn’s expression softens a little. “Not today,” he says, but his voice is gentle, and hey, they seem to actually be getting somewhere. Painstakingly slowly, but it’s a start, in any case.

Kurt lets Finn return to the jock table and goes to join Mercedes, Tina and Artie, wondering if everyone’s high school experience involves illegitimate teen pregnancies and all the lies that come hand in hand with that, inappropriate gay crushes, (mostly) unintentional drug abuse, being hit in the face with iced drinks, and staggering amounts of show tunes, or if they’re all just really, really lucky.

~

“Why’s this chick bitching so much?” Puck asks.

Trust Puck to ruin the Wicked soundtrack for him. Kurt’s ipod is on shuffle and the rain is streaking down the windows of his car. He and Puck are supposed to be having a strategy meeting, but it’s turned into a silence that’s weirdly not as uncomfortable as it should be while they both watch the semi-apocalyptic weather. Puck occasionally makes disparaging remarks about Kurt’s taste in music but without any real venom in his voice, and he got his phone out about ten minutes ago anyway.

Kurt sighs in a long-suffering sort of way. “The man she’s in love with is in love with her best friend,” he explains, and doesn’t notice the way Puck’s head snaps up when he says this because his attention is caught by a tree which is bending in a disconcerting fashion in the driving wind. The glee club will probably end up with no budget whatsoever if the tree falls over and crushes school property and something has to be replaced. “So she isn’t bitching, she’s explaining that whatever she does, she isn’t going to be the girl that he wants.”

“Huh,” Puck says quietly, almost to himself, and then is quiet for a disconcertingly long time. When Kurt stops filing his nails long enough to actually look at him, Puck smirks lopsidedly at him and adds: “sounds like bitching to me.”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “You have no soul,” he says. “And anyway, you can’t be listening that hard, whoever you’re texting-”

“Sexting,” Puck corrects him.

Kurt resists the urge to say ‘ew’, because it’s actually not ew, it’s just weird that Puck is sitting next to him in his car and sort of semi getting off with some random stranger. Well, hopefully they’re not a stranger to Puck, but Kurt wouldn’t exactly be surprised if it turned out they were. Before he can stop himself he leans sideways to get a look at the screen of Puck’s phone.

When he’s silent for a moment, Puck laughs sharply and says: “too hot for you, Hummel?”

“Your grammar is lamentable,” Kurt informs him. “Also, I’m pretty certain that ‘teabagging’ has three ‘g’s in it.”

He sits back and thinks he’s probably blushing, though he refuses to crack. Puck arches a confrontational eyebrow at him, and then hands him his phone. 

“You actually want me to write your sexts for you?” Kurt enquires.

Puck shrugs. “You seem to think you can do a better job...”

The unspoken challenge in his voice is so ridiculous it’s almost laughable, and Kurt shouldn’t give in. However, the rain is still pouring down and they’re still sitting here and Kurt knows that he should kick Puck out into the storm and drive home, but he isn’t moving. He’s just sitting here, trapped in a small enclosed space with Noah Puckerman under what are basically false pretences, and the worst part is that he doesn’t even really mind.

“I can do a better job,” Kurt tells him, evoking a bark of laughter, and carefully corrects the spelling and grammar on the phone screen until it looks like it was typed by a human being and not by a confused monkey bashing hopelessly at the keys. Then, because he’s proving a point and Puck is still looking at him with a mixture of confusion and condescending amusement and Kurt wants to wipe that look off his face, he thinks for a moment and then keys in another sentence.

He hands the phone back to Puck, who reads the new message with a little smirk sliding across his mouth, and then he chokes.

“Fucking hell, Hummel!”

“Did you not want to do that to her?” Kurt asks, keeping his tone as innocent as he can without bursting out laughing. “Apparently it’s quite stimulating.”

“Jesus,” Puck mutters, even as he hits ‘send’. “You sure you’re gay?”

“I’ve been underwear shopping with pretty much all the female members of glee club,” Kurt shrugs, “including both ones you have and haven’t slept with and the one you impregnated. I’d probably know if tits did anything for me by now.” Puck says nothing for a long moment. “Please stop picturing all the girls having orgies in the dressing rooms,” Kurt says. 

“Like I’d even-”

“I used to picture the same thing about the football locker room, until I actually got in there and found out what a bunch of pigs you all are,” Kurt shrugs, turning his attention back to his fingernails.

“We’re not that bad,” Puck protests. “And seriously, you’re gonna tell me you didn’t sneak a peek while we were all changing, not once?”

Kurt files one nail to perfection and moves onto the next. “You do realise you’re practically begging me to have been eyeraping you in the locker rooms and that that is not really typical footballer behaviour? You’re supposed to be punching my face in just for the implication that I might have done that.”

Puck shrugs. “I think I’ve beaten up enough people for now,” he says, “ask me next week.”

Kurt finds himself a little bit tongue-tied when reminded that Puck beat the shit out of Karofsky for him. It’s just something too big and too confusing and too unlikely and too stupid to have actually happened, and when he recalls that it did it makes him feel a bewildering mix of emotions that he can’t define and doesn’t particularly want to.

“I might have maybe snuck a glance at Finn getting out of the shower a couple of times,” he provides after a moment, watching rain drops streak down the windshield. “Maybe. Possibly. Hypothetically.”

Puck makes a sound that might be a grunt or a laugh or something along those lines. Kurt still can’t read him and that thought doesn’t disturb him as much as it probably should do. 

“Finn is crap at Spanish,” he says, after a moment.

“Yeah, that wasn’t really what I was thinking about when Finn was naked and dripping wet,” Kurt says without thinking.

Puck’s smirk is twistedly amused. “I meant, this is your opportunity to get your hands on that instead of watching like some creeper,” he says slowly, like Kurt is particularly dense. “Finn is flunking Spanish. Help him not be flunking Spanish and it’ll be your chance to get close to him outside of showtunes and mascara.”

“Is that what you’re calling glee club now?” Kurt asks lightly. “Upgraded us from ‘Homo Explosion’?” It’s sort of amusing and sort of disconcerting the way Puck looks momentarily uncomfortable about this. Kurt decides to spare him from answering. “Do you think it’ll work?”

“It’s how I got Santana,” Puck shrugs.

Kurt frowns. “I thought you ‘got’ Santana that time she jumped you by your locker and then informed you that you were her bitch now.”

Puck looks awkward, like Kurt is emasculating him just by saying that and he doesn’t like it. “I laid the groundwork first,” he protests.

“Sure you did,” Kurt says, mock-soothing. “So, what, you’re suggesting I offer to tutor Finn in Spanish?”

Puck shrugs. “Well, don’t do it in a creepy, hitting-on-him way, be casual. But... yeah. That.”

Kurt debates with himself over whether to take offence at being called ‘creepy’, and decides not to. “You know,” he says slowly, hearing surprise in his tone, “that might actually work.”

Puck glares at him. “Are you questioning my awesome dating skills?”

Kurt laughs. “Oh, no, I have absolute faith in your slutty powers.”

“You calling me a slut?” Puck raises his eyebrows.

“You’ve slept with half of Lima,” Kurt can’t help saying.

“Like, a quarter,” Puck corrects him, with something almost smug in his tone.

“Your modesty really is an attractive quality,” Kurt informs him dryly, and wonders when it became ok to say things like this to Puck without fear of being punched.

“You know it,” Puck informs him, shifting in his seat. “I gotta be going,” he adds, nodding his head like some kind of vague parting, and before Kurt can say anything he’s sliding out of the car, slamming the door, and running through the wet parking lot to his car. 

Kurt sits still for a long moment, bemused, before he slides his keys into the ignition.

~

Quinn is busy looking small and lost and isolated, ignored by the student body and looking doubtfully at her lunch tray. Kurt looks up from today’s unappetising offering – he misses the Inadvisable Cranberry Juice Diet, but Mercedes put her foot down; not even “but it worked for Selma Hayek!” would get her to cave – and sighs. He gets up, leaving his friends staring after him in confusion, and crosses the cafeteria to grab Quinn’s wrist and drag her over to their table, ignoring her confused questioning.

“Hi guys,” he says to the table at large, “this is Quinn Fabray, she’s just transferred here to Loserville from the dizzying heights of Popularity. Since she’s new, let’s all try and be nice to her, ok?”

Quinn shakes her head. “You are so weird,” she says quietly, but her smile is fond and just a little grateful. Kurt pushes her into a chair between himself and Artie, and then sits down. Mercedes has arched an eyebrow and Tina looks apprehensive, like Quinn is going to lash out at all of them, and Kurt isn’t entirely sure what Rachel is going to say when she finally joins their table, but he’s sick of Quinn looking all drifting and sad all the time, and she at least deserves to have people to eat lunch with.

Later, after a lunch period that was awkward but which could have been more awkward, all things considered, Kurt and Quinn walk to Chemistry together.

“You and Puck seem to be spending a lot of time together lately,” she says carefully.

“What-” Kurt swallows to let the note of panic out of his voice. “No, we’re not.”

Quinn arches an eyebrow, all bitch, please. “You notice things when no one actually talks to you,” she tells him, and it’s so jarringly similar to what Puck said to him a couple of weeks ago that Kurt can’t think of anything to reply with for an embarrassingly long moment.

“Are you going to tell me he’s dangerous and I shouldn’t be around him?” he asks. “‘Cause kind of a lot of people have beaten you to that already.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “At least this can’t happen to you,” she says, gesturing at where the bump of her stomach is just visible beneath the loose lavender top. Kurt itches to take her maternity clothes shopping, but suspects she’d refuse, which is a pity, because he could do amazing things before she gets too big for his efforts to be worth it. “I win.”

“You do win,” Kurt agrees. “I’m not sure what you win...”

“If you figure it out, let me know.” Quinn smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Anyway, I’m not about to tell you that Puck is the devil in disguise – though he kind of is – I’m just telling you that if Finn figures it out you’re going to have no chance with him at all.”

Kurt wants to say Finn believed you got pregnant from a hot tub, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine, but thinks it might be a bit too soon for that. He likes to bruise with his words after all, not draw blood, and Quinn’s got enough crap in her life at the moment as it is. Instead, he says: “does everyone know about my crush on Finn?”

Quinn nods, something that’s nearly sympathy on her face. “Yes. Well, everyone but Finn.”

Kurt sighs. “Story of my life.”

It’s depressing, really, that Finn just doesn’t notice these things. After they won Sectionals, they had a party to celebrate, and someone who definitely wasn’t Kurt or Mercedes or Tina, honestly, might have sort of spiked everyone’s drinks. A little bit. Maybe. Anyway, if it had been Kurt, he’d certainly paid for it when he was stuck on the bathroom floor with Rachel, holding her hair back and listening to her complain about her miserable, totally-not-happening relationship with Finn in between bouts of retching (and, well, if he’d accidentally-on-purpose let her be sick all over one of her hideous sweaters, no one could prove a thing). And, ok, yes, she might have threatened his balls with a pair of scissors in the morning if he told anyone, but that didn’t mean that Kurt didn’t know that Rachel basically had to tell Finn to kiss her. 

And Kurt in no way at all spent a week wondering if he could get that method to work for him.

Quinn laughs. “Anyway,” she says, “I think you might actually be good for Puck. Just try and keep him from finding out until it’s too late, ok?”

“Ok,” Kurt replies, and is almost relieved when they get to class. He slides into the desk beside Quinn’s anyway, ignoring the mutters from the rest of the students – really? They’re going to hate Quinn now because she’s having a kid? Clearly the entire school is insane – and tries to get through the lesson without hearing her words echoing in his head.

He’s not particularly successful.

~

Puck spent half an hour drilling casual, Hummel, casual, not with that creepy infatuated expression that you wear around Finn because that will just make him back away and he’ll probably wind up crushing a freshman and, you know, ew into his head. Once Kurt has managed to get the mental image of Finn crushing a freshman out of his brain – which takes a while – and spent half an hour in the ladies’ bathroom helping Rachel wash grape slushie out of Tina’s hair – “didn’t duck in time”, Tina mumbles miserably, ice sliding through her coloured highlights – he decides it’s probably time to go and waylay Finn on the way to Spanish. He’s pretty sure he can do it; if nothing else, he’s picked up tips from Miss Pillsbury on How To Run Into Someone And Pretend You Were On Your Way Somewhere Else, since she does it to Mr Schuester so often. He can’t work out if Mr Schuester hasn’t noticed this, or if he kind of likes it, but either way, Kurt can so make this work for him.

It’s actually pretty easy, catching Finn in the hall like they’re just passing each other by, and Kurt thinks that this whole nonchalance thing is actually pretty cool. Not that he will tell Puck this. Ever. 

“Are you on your way to Spanish?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Finn agrees, and they fall into step.

Casual, Hummel, casual, says Puck’s voice in the back of his head, looking all threatening like he’ll stuff Kurt into a locker if he screws this up. Hell, if he screws this up, Kurt just might shove himself into a locker.

“You don’t sound enthusiastic,” Kurt remarks lightly, letting a smile flicker over his mouth.

Finn shrugs. “It’s all this subjunctive stuff Mr Schue keeps going on about at the moment, I don’t really get it.”

Kurt knows. He sits near enough to Finn in Spanish to be able to both appreciate the aesthetic qualities of Finn sitting in the sunlight streaming through the classroom windows and also that Finn is really not getting the subjunctive at all. Or pretty much any other Spanish tense, for that matter. It doesn’t help that Finn sits next to Brittany, who genuinely answers all questions she’s confused about with a drawing of sombrero. Which is most questions, although her sombrero drawing skills are getting better, and it could be worse; Kurt tried to help her with her biology homework after movie night the other week, and learned that all biology questions she’s confused about get a little tree in response. Sometimes the tree has apples on it, if she’s especially confused.

Finn needs someone to rescue him, and that someone can so be Kurt.

“I could help you out with that sometime,” he offers, not looking at Finn, doing his best not to make it sound like he’s flirting. Or that he’s offering to help Finn out with something else entirely, and oh crap, it’s just as well he put his foundation on a little bit too thick today, because he thinks he might now be blushing.

“Would you?” Finn sounds a little wary.

Kurt shrugs. “I mean, if you wanted it. I could tutor you a little.”

Finn’s face breaks into a smile that Kurt can’t look at because it makes his stomach do helpless little things. “Sure, man, that would be great.”

Kurt doesn’t hear a word Mr Schue says for the entirety of Spanish.

~

“Now,” Puck says, looking all intense and earnest, and Kurt reflects that if he put a tenth of the effort he’s putting into getting Kurt and Finn together into his schoolwork then he wouldn’t be flunking everything. Not that he points this out. “Let’s talk about that sexuality-confusing first kiss.”

Something akin to panic unfolds in Kurt’s stomach. In order to distract himself, he reflects that they’ve really come a long way if Puck is using phrases like “sexuality-confusing” as opposed to “make him feel like a giant homo”. It’s a little disconcerting but on the whole it’s a positive.

“Um,” Kurt says slightly helplessly, “how do I know if Finn even wants to kiss me?”

Puck rolls his eyes. “One thing I’ve learned: if there’s no market for something, create the damn market. I mean, really, how many people around here do you think actually want their pools cleaned, and look how successful my business is.”

“Your business is only successful because you sleep with your clients,” Kurt can’t help but point out.

Puck waves a hand dismissively and Kurt gets the feeling he’d be saying semantics but for the fact he has no idea what that means.

“Anyway,” Puck says, “remember, when you’re in there conjugating with Finn-” the way he says it is much too filthy and Kurt flushes “-crank up the sexual tension. Don’t look at him all cow-eyed and infatuated, break out that ‘come hither’ look.”

“I don’t have a come-hither look,” Kurt protests, and it only comes out a little bit squeaky.

Puck mutters something that sounds like rewatch that damn mattress commercial but he clears his throat and says: “well, work on one,” before Kurt can ask for clarification. “Also, you might wanna get rid of the whole blushing thing.”

“It’s an unconscious physical reaction,” Kurt says blankly. “How can I make it not happen?”

Puck shrugs, like this bit isn’t his problem. “You want Finn to look at you and think something other than wow, he looks like a tomato, then figure it out.”

“I do not look like a tomato!” Kurt protests.

“Yeah, you do,” Puck says, like that settles it. He leans back in his seat, smirking like he’s won something. “So, are you a good kisser?”

Kurt has far too much dignity to splutter, though he’s sorely tempted to. He curls his toes inside today’s fabulous knee-high boots instead and keeps a calm facade on. “How am I supposed to know?”

Puck frowns slightly. “Well, has anyone ever mentioned it to you? Or told you that you suck?”

Kurt forces himself to keep looking calmly at Puck and does his damndest not to blush. “And these ‘anyones’ would be part of the long line of gay guys in Lima lining up to kiss me, would they?” He arches a sarcastic eyebrow.

The expression on Puck’s face is entirely unreadable. “So you’ve never been kissed?” he asks slowly.

“It’s really only been the last few months I’ve stopped ending up in the dumpster every morning,” Kurt points out. “Unless you know someone with a trash fetish...”

Puck smirks slightly. Kurt can see the decision forming perfectly clearly in Puck’s mind and so he’s quick enough to turn his head so that Puck’s mouth merely brushes against his cheek.

“Dude, what-”

“I’ve seen Cruel Intentions,” Kurt replies calmly as Puck sits back, and he is not feeling the place where Puck’s lips touched his skin at all, “I’ve seen John Tucker Must Die, I know how this goes and I kind of appreciate it in a very weird way because I know how much the mere idea of kissing me would mess with your personal conceptions of masculinity, but while I do know my first kiss isn’t going to take place surrounded by fireworks and balloons and tumbling rose petals, I do sort of want it to happen not in my car in the school parking lot. Ok?”

Puck is smiling but the edges of his mouth are too tight. “Dude, you lost me at ‘conceptions’. But yeah, I get it.”

Kurt doesn’t thank him because that would be weird, but he realises that he really appreciates Puck not mocking him mercilessly for being the never-been-kissed gay glee kid. He slides his keys into the ignition because he really should be getting home, and doesn’t miss the look Puck shoots him as he does so, though he thinks he’s probably meant to.

“Do you... want to hang out?” he asks slowly, managing to sound more puzzled than invitational.

“Ok,” Puck says, like this is a normal thing and not a huge, earth-shattering occurrence. Like Kurt was actually offering, and he’s not even sure that he was.

“I may file my nails,” he warns, “and we’ll probably end up watching a movie that has singing in it.”

“Ok,” Puck says again.

Well, Kurt is always up for new experiences. He curls his hands tight around the steering wheel so they won’t shake, and wonders what the hell they’re doing. If they’re friends now or if Puck just really doesn’t want to go home, and what that even means, and he’s almost relieved when Puck starts scrolling through his ipod and fills the car with music because Kurt can’t stand the sound of his own confused thoughts any longer.

They actually wind up watching 27 Dresses because “that chick from Grey’s Anatomy is kind of hot” (when Kurt asks how Puck knows anything about that show, he shrugs uncomfortably and mutters something about his mom) and it doesn’t actually have any show tunes in it. They eat microwave popcorn and, after far too much silence, Puck starts commenting on how hot the girls are so Kurt retaliates with how adorable James Marsden is and it’s kind of ok. Very, very weird and a little disturbing but, nonetheless, ok.

As the credits are rolling, Puck looks at his knees and explains, very quietly, that his mom found out about Quinn and the baby and all that shit and he is currently not exactly her favourite person. 

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Kurt blurts without even thinking about it, and then reflects that even if he’d had time to consider it he would still have made the offer.

Puck’s smile is almost surprised. “Nah, I should get back. Don’t want to give her more reasons to yell at me, you know?”

“Yeah,” Kurt says, and is trying to come up with something sensible to say when Puck gets up off his couch and heads for the stairs.

“See you tomorrow, Kurt.”

And then he’s gone. Kurt wonders if he should’ve offered him a ride but it’s too late now, in any case. After a while, he finally realises that Puck actually called him Kurt. 

His dad quizzes him later about the boy he saw leaving Kurt’s room. “Please, dad,” Kurt says, laughing in a way that is really not even slightly bitter at all, “he’s like the straightest guy in school. He’s the one who got Quinn Fabray pregnant. We were just hanging out.”

Yeah, his mind provides helpfully, he’s the straightest guy in school who tried to kiss me this afternoon. Kurt pushes that thought away, though, because he really has no idea what to do with it.

~

It’s just as well that Kurt has a good memory for details – song lyrics and dance routines and that sort of thing – because the list of instructions Puck has given him is complicated and bewildering and Kurt decides to reassess the whole thinking Puck is kind of stupid thing. He clearly doesn’t have the mental space to focus on schoolwork because his brain is so crammed full of all this social interaction stuff. Puck didn’t look Kurt in the eye once while he was relaying all this stuff, but Kurt assumes that’s because Puck is embarrassed about last night. It’s completely understandable. The whole thing was probably more gay than Puck could handle, even with his newfound apparent tolerance.

Finn’s room has cowboys on the walls which Kurt finds oddly endearing, even as his inner interior designer flinches, cowers, and then hides itself in a corner, weeping. There’s a reason his basement room is decorated all in clean whites, after all. Still, Finn’s room is homely and oddly safe-feeling and he can live with it. One good thing about the room is that it is full of sunlight and far too warm, enabling Kurt to peel off the sweater he’s been wearing today. Underneath, today’s shirt is just the right side of too-tight, not enough to look desperate but enough to imply that there’s a body underneath, an expanse of skin. As he folds his sweater neatly and straightens his hair, Kurt can feel Finn looking at him, gaze lingering just a little bit too long. Kurt swallows and then can hear Puck’s voice in his head, saying loud and clear: if you goddamn blush – and believe me, Hummel, if you do, I will know – I’m putting you in the fucking dumpster tomorrow morning. Ok? 

He drags his gaze up to Finn’s, slow and careful, and offers him a small smile. “Shall we get started?”

Finn blinks twice before he says: “uh, sure.”

Kurt debates telling Puck that he should write a book. It would probably make more than his pool-cleaning/prostitution business, after all.

The main problem is that Finn is adorable; he’s terrible at Spanish but he tries – oh God, how he tries – and his sheepish little smile makes Kurt go a little bit weak-kneed. Still, staring at Finn in a rabbit-in-the-headlights way has never worked for Kurt in the past, and while being all wide-eyed and wanting has sort of paid off for Rachel, she does at least have tits on her side. Kurt doesn’t; he has disdain and sarcasm and a sharp fashion sense and so he has to work that little bit harder. So he squashes down the part of him that wants to stammer and flutter and be all awkward and is instead as calm and confident as he can manage. Finn seems a little surprised but also a lot more comfortable than he usually is, which Kurt decides to take as a good sign.

He blushes once he’s in the safety of his own car, driving home, flushed beet red with his hands shaking a little on the steering wheel, but it’s fine, because no one can see.

Puck manages to casually walk beside him in the parking lot in the morning. “Am I putting you in the dumpster today, Hummel?”

Kurt suspects the smirk he throws in Puck’s direction is just a little smug, but he’s kind of earned it. “No,” he replies.

A couple of members of the football team call Puck over and Kurt sweeps into school to find Mercedes and see the gorgeous new scarf she was gushing about last night on the phone. He doesn’t see Puck at any point during the rest of the day, but their schedules don’t really overlap much and Puck’s attendance isn’t exactly stellar, so it’s not entirely unexpected.

Really.

~

Kurt shivers and unconsciously grabs onto today’s delicious trilby as Azimio passes him, vivid blue slushie in hand. However, it’s not for him, and it isn’t for Quinn either, walking beside him, knuckles white around her books. They both turn to see who Azimio’s target is today, and Kurt has a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach as he sees Mercedes by her locker, talking to Tina and utterly oblivious.

He’s just opening his mouth to shout a warning at Mercedes – because if she gets slushie in her weave then they will not ever hear the end of it – when Puck walks out of nowhere, managing to make it look casual but walking in front of Mercedes just as the blue raspberry slushie leaves the cup. Kurt hates today’s flannel shirt but still, he can’t get his thoughts to process what just happened.

He turns to Quinn to find her eyes have gone very wide and she’s speechless, which is never a good sign. All Kurt can think, dazedly, is: Puck just took a slushie for Mercedes. WTF?

Mercedes and Tina seem to be stuck in frozen, stunned hazes as Azimio shoves forcibly past Puck, muttering fuck you, Puckerman.

Rachel appears out of nowhere, fisting her small hand in the sleeve of his wrecked shirt. “Can I help, Noah?”

Puck looks about as stunned as they all feel, but he mutters: “what the hell, sure, Berry.”

Tina and Mercedes perk up enough to accompany Rachel as they forcibly drag Puck towards the nearest bathrooms, and Kurt turns to Quinn to find she’s staring at him.

“What did you do to Puck?” she asks, hushed.

“That’s ridiculous,” Kurt splutters, “I didn’t do anything.”

Quinn raises an eyebrow, clearly telling him she isn’t buying a word. “I couldn’t even get him to take a night out to drive me to the clinic,” she informs him, “and I’m carrying his devil-spawn.”

“She’s not devil-spawn,” Kurt protests, unconsciously reaching a hand to cover Quinn’s stomach. 

She smiles slightly. “No, she’s not.” She looks down at Kurt’s hand and then back up. “You’re not off the hook, Hummel.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Kurt repeats a little desperately this time.

“Hmmm.” Quinn doesn’t elaborate, then flicks her hair. “We’re going to be late for class.”

Kurt has difficulty concentrating for the entirety of math. When he finally looks down at his work, half the answers simply say: “rainbows”.

~

“Hey,” Puck says two days later after glee practice, “you got five minutes?”

Puck has his guitar strapped to his back and his smile is oddly tight. Normally, he just comes up and corners Kurt so this asking thing is new and confusing. 

“I might,” he says, keeping his voice careless and calm. 

It’s so sunny that Kurt whips his sunglasses out of his bag the minute they step outside. He likes his sunglasses; they keep the world at a safe distance while simultaneously making him look awesome. They have also protected his eyes from corn syrup on more than one occasion, which is never a bad thing.

“I had this idea for a song,” Puck explains, “but I wanted to run it by you first, you know? Get a second opinion?”

From what they managed to get out of Rachel when she and Puck were doing that totally inadvisable dating thing – the one where Puck pretended Rachel was Quinn and Rachel pretended Puck was Finn and everyone else in the school sat back with popcorn to await the inevitable entertaining implosion – this was totally how Puck got into Rachel’s pants, or heart, or brain, or whatever he managed to get into. Only he let her do the singing. Still, Kurt reasons, they’re sort of friends now, and he’s fairly sure his virtue is safe. Or as safe as anyone’s virtue can be around Noah Puckerman, anyway.

“Ok,” Kurt says slowly.

Most of the extracurricular clubs have finished by now and the school grounds are surprisingly quiet. Puck picks a bench underneath a tree, the ground around them dappled with sunlight, and slings his guitar off his back. Kurt sits down beside him, maintaining a careful distance, and arches an expectant eyebrow. He’s grateful for the sunglasses, because he suspects his eyes must look terrified.

He knows what Puck’s about to sing the minute his fingers pluck out the first bar on the guitar strings, and his surprise must register on his face because Puck smirks just a little. It’s unexpected; Kurt wouldn’t expect Puck to willingly sing Madonna on any occasion at all ever, especially Madonna just before she seriously lost her musical direction and became sort of fail, or at least as fail as you can be when you’re still freaking Madonna. It’s also one of Kurt’s favourite Madonna songs, but he’s pretty sure he hasn’t told anyone this so he blames that one on coincidence. Weird, random coincidence.

It doesn’t really help that Puck still manages to sound all smoky and serious and manly and not gay at all while singing Madonna. Which really shouldn’t be possible and Kurt has to mentally repeat he will put you in the dumpster, he really will to stop himself from flushing and being ridiculous. 

“Tell me love isn’t true, it’s just something that we do...” Puck isn’t looking at Kurt, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance, and Kurt watches Puck’s fingers on the strings because it’s safe. “Tell me everything I’m not but don’t ever tell me to stop...”

Puck’s gaze finally slides back to Kurt for the final chorus, and Kurt swallows hard because it’s one thing when someone is talented and just happens to be singing and another thing entirely when someone is singing to you. Kurt has a horrible flashback to the whole Sweet Caroline thing and then tells himself he’s being stupid and then he’s paralysed because Puck is reaching across to take Kurt’s sunglasses off.

He can’t breathe, which is ridiculous, and he should say something constructive but he can’t because Puck is leaning forward, keeping the guitar as a barrier between them, and Kurt has time to think Oh my God this is actually happening just before Puck’s mouth touches his.

Kurt sits frozen for one long moment and then Puck tilts his head slightly and his lips shift against Kurt’s and Kurt’s eyes flutter shut of their own accord. His stomach feels like it’s full of sparks, restless and terrified and thrilled, and Puck opens his mouth a little so Kurt copies the movement. Puck’s hand comes to rest on his cheek, warm and weirdly gentle and they’re kissing now, soft and slow and Kurt’s mind stops screaming about how surreal and wrong this situation is and all he can think about is the sunlight against his eyelids and the way Puck’s mouth feels against his. Puck’s tongue runs across his lower lip and Kurt opens his mouth a little more, an unconscious invitation, and Puck abruptly sits back. He hands Kurt his sunglasses and scrapes together a smile.

“You’re gonna be fine, Ku- Hummel. Absolutely fine.” His face scrunches. “Also, are you wearing lipgloss?”

Kurt arches an eyebrow in a duh, of course sort of way. It occurs to him that this was Puck catching him off-guard for the Clichéd Movie Kissing Training Session. Annoyance and amusement battle within him as he puts his sunnies back on.

“You have no intention of singing that song at glee club,” he says, and it sounds far less accusing than he meant it to. It sounds almost affectionate, which was not the plan at all. “You learned that song for me.”

Puck shrugs and doesn’t look at him. “I didn’t wanna shortchange you out of your first kiss,” he mumbles.

“Wow,” Kurt says blankly, “you’re actually capable of being considerate.”

It occurs to him that maybe he shouldn’t have said it out loud; it sounds kind of bitchy. Puck half-laughs.

“Sometimes.” He glances at Kurt. “Anyway, now you won’t sit there all frozen and terrified when you’re meant to be laying one on Finn.”

Finn, right. Kurt belatedly realises that he hasn’t thought of Finn in about ten minutes and his stomach clenches. Puck’s training him up to get Finn so he can get his best friend back. That’s all this is. It doesn’t explain why his heart is beating so hard it’s a wonder Puck can’t hear it, but then Kurt has just been kissed for the first time. It’s to be expected. He looks around at the greenery, the sunlight, the tree, the guitar, and reflects that Puck set this up pretty awesomely, actually.

Saying ‘thank you’ still isn’t appropriate and they both know it so Kurt doesn’t let himself blurt it out. Instead, they sit there shoulder to shoulder for a long time, saying nothing at all.

~

Kurt ends up in the dumpster the next morning, though the football team does at least divest him of his jacket and bag first. He isn’t surprised; it’s why he’s wearing black today, after all. He came prepared.

When they’ve all definitely disappeared, Kurt stays lying on his back on the garbage bags – which don’t smell great but at least none of them have split, for once – and stares up at the blue sky and laughs and laughs and laughs.

~

It itches under his skin for the next week. Kurt wants to tell Mercedes, wants to give her horrible excruciating details about the softness of Puck’s lips, wants to discuss the whole finally kissing someone thing at great, great length. But he can’t, because to tell her would mean having to admit to the fact he’s letting Puck tell him what to do so he can get Finn, and he can just picture Mercedes’ expression. She’s his best friend and he feels guilty about lying to her, but on the other hand she’s his best friend and therefore he might actually listen to her when she tells him he’s being an idiot. It’s just safer to let her believe he’s struck up some kind of messed-up friendship with Puck that makes no sense to anyone, least of all them. After all, it’s not exactly a lie.

Puck acts entirely normal around him, like nothing happened between them, and Kurt supposes that to Puck, nothing has. After all, Puck must be kissing people left, right and centre and Kurt is just the next at the bottom of a very, very long list. In fact, he’s probably not even the one at the bottom because Puck has almost certainly kissed at least two people after kissing him, and really, Kurt doesn’t even know why he’s still thinking about all this. Anyway, whatever, it doesn’t matter in the slightest and he is not distracted at all. And he is not at all disturbed and unsettled by that dream he had about Finn where they were making out and halfway through he realised that Finn had, of all things, a fucking mohawk. 

Whatever else is or is not going on in Kurt’s screwed-up, treacherous subconscious, Finn is actually getting genuinely better at Spanish and, against all the odds, Kurt has managed to make sexual tension happen. He’s not even sure how, but there are silences that aren’t awkward and long lingering looks that aren’t uncomfortable. He is creating the damn market, somehow, and a nervous sort of anticipation wriggles in his stomach as he determinedly doesn’t look at Finn’s cowboy wallpaper and attempts to ignore the fact that Spanish is a randomly really sexy language. Sooner or later he’s going to have to push it, going to have to stop being all internally flaily and outwardly as desperately cool as he can be.

“Seriously, Hummel, seal the fucking deal before Finn has time to talk himself out of it,” Puck tells him as they’re walking towards math class – but not in a together way, and in any case Puck is about to peel off and head for the nurse’s office under the pretext of being sick, like he always does – a couple of days later.

“And when exactly am I supposed to ‘seal the fucking deal’?” Kurt asks, tone dripping with sarcasm. Puck shoots him a quick surprised look at the obscenity and then smirks.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Tomorrow, you need to stop freaking the hell out and just go for it.”

Before Kurt can protest properly or ask for advice or whatever it is he’s thinking about doing, Puck adds out of the corner of his mouth: “I’m gonna shove you into the lockers now, ‘cause a load of people are staring at me. But I’m not gonna do it hard, so try and hit them in a way that won’t break your puny spine or whatever.”

Kurt sighs and takes the admittedly-gentler-than-usual elbow to his sternum with all the good grace he can muster, falling back against the lockers with a satisfyingly loud bang that doesn’t really hurt, which makes a nice change.

It takes half of math class for his hands to stop trembling.

~

“Tonight?” Kurt says doubtfully.

“Tonight,” Puck confirms, with an intense look that sort of promises that if Kurt doesn’t do this, he’s going to find himself suffering actual physical bodily harm. “Man up, Hummel.”

Kurt exhales slowly. “Ok,” he says.

Puck raises a fist and after a doubtful second, Kurt tentatively bumps it with his own. He has never done this before in his life and it’s kind of stupid but they grin at each other anyway.

As he walks away, Kurt tries not to think about the fact Puck’s smile didn’t even come close to meeting his eyes.

~

Finn’s gaze has been fixed on the shape Kurt’s mouth is making as they slowly go through conjugations of the pluperfect tense, and not just in a confused-about-the-language way. It’s possible his new ultra-shiny lipgloss – no, he wasn’t born with it, it’s all Maybelline – is just dazzling Finn with its blinding shimmer, but he thinks it’s more than that.

Man up, Hummel, Puck’s voice says sharply in his head, and Kurt swallows, looking at Finn. Oh God, he’s so pretty his brain moans a little helplessly. That doesn’t help, so Kurt girds everything inside him he can possibly gird, and says: “Finn.” Soft, quiet, careful. But it’s a warning of sorts, and though Finn’s not exactly quick on the uptake ever, he should be able to work this out.

“Kurt,” Finn says, and he doesn’t sound scared at all.

Taking a breath, Kurt leans over the space between them, just slow enough for Finn to be able to back away and tell him this is all a huge, huge mistake. Finn doesn’t. In fact, Finn actually leans towards him, meeting him halfway. Kurt closes his eyes because he’s thought about this for too long, pined over Finn for an embarrassing amount of time, and that it’s finally actually happening is enough to make him sort of want to take a moment to step back and hide in the bathroom and pant: “ohmyGodohmyGodohmyGodohmyGod” at the mirror. But that isn’t an option because he’s kissing Finn, actually fucking kissing Finn Hudson, and he can’t stop now.

One of Finn’s hands curls into Kurt’s hair, which kind of bothers him because he spent over an hour fixing it this morning, but right now he decides he’ll let it slide. Heat of the moment and all that. Finn’s tongue slides across his lower lip and unlike when Puck did that he doesn’t pull away, just keeps on going, kissing Kurt harder and deeper and messier. It feels good and Kurt moans into it, Finn pulling him even closer. And as his first French kiss, Kurt supposes, this isn’t the most romantic of environments – Finn’s damn wallpaper and his mom downstairs and verb tables lying forgotten on the desk before them – but it’s ok, it’ll do. And Finn smells good and feels good and his mouth is warm and wet and inviting and-

No, Kurt thinks desperately, oh no. No. No. No.

His brain is still whirring away, taking the situation in in a detached sort of way and it shouldn’t be doing that. He shouldn’t still be thinking. He catches Finn’s bottom lip between his teeth and kisses him harder, desperate for this to take him over and distract him, desperate to feel some sort of spark because this should feel magical, him getting what he’s wanted for so long, and in reality it’s all kind of impersonal. Finn pulls him closer and Kurt shifts and somehow finds himself straddling Finn’s lap, kissing him like his life depends on it and in a way it kind of does. Because this was supposed to be everything and yet it isn’t working, it isn’t working, it isn’t working.

They part for breath and stare at each other, panting, for a long time. Finn’s mouth is all shiny and red and his hair is a mess and Kurt imagines he can’t look much better. He also suspects the look of complete and utter shock must be mirrored across his own features.

“Um,” Finn begins uncertainly.

“It’s ok,” Kurt says, smiling slightly. “Sometimes, this is what you do when your life falls apart. Sometimes you make out with your male gay friend and that’s all it is and then you both move on.”

Finn carefully removes his hands from Kurt’s waist and Kurt shifts backwards until he’s back on his chair again.

“Ok,” Finn says.

“Ok.” Kurt’s smile widens until it actually feels real. “I should probably get going, but we’ll pick up the whole different uses of estar thing in a couple of days, all right?”

“All right,” Finn replies, still looking kind of stunned. 

“Oh,” Kurt adds, deciding that someone should still get something out of this, “and it really isn’t my place, but I think you need someone, and whatever else you feel about him, I think you need Puck right now.” Finn’s face shuts down but there’s something in his eyes, something Kurt can work with. “Promise me you’ll at least think about calling him later?”

Finn thinks through his answer for what feels like forever before he finally supplies: “yeah, I will. Think about it, I mean.”

“Good.”

Kurt picks up his bag and decides he’ll sort out his hair in his rearview mirror and then it’ll all be fine. “Hang on,” Finn says when he gets to the door; Kurt turns back.

“Yes?”

“We are ok, aren’t we?” Finn looks kind of worried now. “‘Cause, like, for a while there I kind of thought you had a thing for me, and-”

“Please, Finn,” Kurt says, with a smile that hurts a little bit, “that crush on you? So two months ago. See you around.”

On the way home, he reflects that this is basically what Puck orchestrated; Finn is vulnerable right now, lost and reeling, and Kurt, under Puck’s guidance, abused that and took complete advantage of it. Finn isn’t making good life choices right now and all Kurt had to do was flutter his eyelashes and be nice to him in order to push Finn into something he ordinarily wouldn’t even consider. Finn is sweet and kind and so confused about the whole Quinn thing and one little tip in the right direction was all it took. It’s such a fucking Puck plan that it makes Kurt grimace a little, but if nothing else he’s learned something about himself along the way, and hey, at least he’ll have more time now he isn’t pining with every spare second.

Kurt shuts himself in his room when he gets back and lies on his bed and cries for a while anyway, because sometimes letting go of things you’ve been holding onto for years requires a few tears before you can sweep them under the carpet and stride on, sparklier than ever.

~

He isn’t put in a dumpster the next morning, which is always a nice start to his day, and Kurt strides into school with his head held high and fully aware that this is the start of, if not a new chapter, then at least a new paragraph of his life. He’s dressed extra fabulous today in order to celebrate this and he has little excited butterflies jiving in his stomach for reasons he’s not even sure of.

“Damn, boy,” Mercedes observes, “you’re glowing.”

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” Kurt asks airily.

Tina and Artie look concerned, but smile anyway. “It’s drizzling,” Artie observes.

“Is it?” Kurt frowns. 

Finn and Puck are walking down the corridor side by side; not quite as close as they used to be and their body language speaks volumes, even from a distance. Still, they’re trying and that’s the important part, their smiles tentative but just about real. The scar will be ugly, but at least they’re trying to heal.

“Hey, Kurt,” Finn greets him, clapping a warm hand against his shoulder.

“Hey, Finn,” Kurt says, with a replying smile that, for once, doesn’t have a dozen desperate messages behind it. 

Puck doesn’t acknowledge him at all, doesn’t even look at him.

Kurt watches the two of them walk away down the corridor, and realises that every last happy, excited butterfly in his stomach has died a swift death and left him feeling like his insides are made of lead. Finn glances back over his shoulder and smiles at them all, but Puck doesn’t. Kurt blinks and looks away from the two of them, and reminds himself that he didn’t expect any different.

He didn’t.

~

There’s a reason Mercedes is his best friend apart from her fabulous fashion skills and her wonderful bitchiness that so compliments his own; she’s also incredibly observant.

After school, she comes up to him, slipping her arm through his. “Spill,” she orders.

“Damn you’re good,” Kurt sighs.

“Of course I am,” Mercedes responds cheerfully. “Now, do I have to start threatening your hair or are you going to tell me on your own?”

Kurt considers this. “I’ll give you a ride home,” he says, “we can talk on the way.”

Mercedes grins in a self-satisfied sort of way and together they head out to the parking lot and Kurt’s baby.

“This is a secret,” Kurt tells her when they’re finally driving. “And when I say secret I mean that you can’t tell anyone at all. And I mean that genuinely, not in a ‘oh I promise not to tell anyone, whoops, I told everyone in glee’ way.”

Mercedes rolls her eyes. “One time,” she says, “and anyway, don’t tell me it didn’t make your week when you found out the baby wasn’t Finn’s.”

“It did make my week,” Kurt concedes, “but I thought about feeling bad about it afterwards.”

“Sure you did, honey,” Mercedes agrees without a shred of sincerity. “Now talk or I’ll tell your dad that you didn’t put all those sweaters he hates in the trash.”

Kurt grips the steering wheel and keeps his gaze on the road and says: “so, uh, Finn and I kind of made out yesterday.”

Mercedes’ OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK is nothing short of deafening. Kurt looks appealingly at her and waits for her hyperventilating to stop so she can talk about this without resorting to verbal capslock. She fixes him with a look. “I cannot believe that you held out on me all damn day.”

Kurt reminds himself that helplessly flailing will just lead to crashing and wrecking the car and then his dad will probably go in his Hope Chest and stamp on all his tiaras and then his life will be empty and bereft and stuff. He’s about to apologise for not dishing the dirt quick enough but he did sort of have dignity and everything when Mercedes finishes huffing and asks:

“So are you guys, like, what? Hooking up? Dating? Some other arrangement?”

“No,” Kurt replies, and before she can chime in with a dozen other things, he adds: “it didn’t feel right.”

He loves Mercedes for not shrieking at this moment. Instead she frowns, and says: “kissing the prettiest guy in school who you’ve been in love with for forever didn’t feel right?”

“I’m not in love with him,” Kurt says softly, and even though this is a good thing and he’s, like, growing as a person and so forth, it still sort of stings when it comes out loud. “And it... it just didn’t feel right.”

Mercedes has apparently picked this moment to be all analytical because what she next comes out with is: “if you’ve never kissed anyone before, how did you know it didn’t feel right?”

It’s genuine curiosity in her voice – she’s as never-been-kissed as he was up until just over a week ago – but, unfortunately, she has asked the question Kurt has been avoiding asking himself for the last twenty-four hours. As the words spill from her – immaculately glossed – lips, Kurt realises exactly why he hasn’t been letting himself think about it. It’s like getting a slushie in the face, like getting ten slushies in the face with ice dripping from his hairline down through his underwear and into his shoes. Cold realisation runs through him because, for one insane moment, Kurt was genuinely about to reply with: I know it didn’t feel right because it didn’t feel like it did with Puck.

He is fucked. He is so very, very, horribly fucked. And also oblivious. And also crashing.

Mercedes yanks the steering wheel at the right moment to stop them careening into a tree and screams: “brake, bitch, fucking brake!” loud enough to break through Kurt’s horrified reverie and actually cause him to slam his foot down. They stare at each other for a moment.

“I’m driving you to my house,” Mercedes informs him, “and we are going to do face masks and eat a lot of ice cream and watch Top Model and say mean things about all the contestants and then we are going to break into my parents’ liquor cabinet because you are clearly going through a lot of emotional trauma right now and you need it.”

Kurt tries to make a noise of assent but it comes out as a whimper instead. He obediently gets out of the car and they switch sides. When she’s sat behind the wheel, Mercedes leans over to deposit a kiss on his forehead. “Ok, my little hot damn mess?”

I’m in love with Puck, Kurt thinks miserably, and this is totally going to be even worse than the hopelessly pining after Finn thing, I can tell.

“Ok,” he replies, and scrapes together a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Kurt has lovely soft glowing skin but also a hangover, and Puck passes him in the corridor without even glancing at him once.

He wonders idly if Miss Pillsbury has a pamphlet entitled: _Ten Steps To Stopping Repeatedly Crushing On Straight And Unattainable Jocks And Living A Much Happier Life As A Result._

If she doesn’t, someone should write one.

At glee that afternoon, Kurt calmly steals the lead for _Rehab_ from under Rachel’s nose – because _please_ , her fashion sense is nowhere near delicious enough for Rihanna – and rocks it hard because he’s had fucking _enough_ of having hormones.

“ _The only problem is that you was using me in a different way than I was using you, but now that I know it’s not meant to be – you’ve gotta go, I’ve gotta wean myself off of you..._ ”

He doesn’t look once at Puck while he sings because he doesn’t even know what he wants to see there, but he knows he won’t get it.

~

Pining after Finn was sort of fun, although it hurt in a poking-at-a-bruise kind of way. Pining after Puck is just plain _depressing_. It doesn’t feel sort of warm and hopeless and enjoyable, it just makes Kurt wander around thinking _I hate my life_ most of the time. It is all very tragic. Also, it kind of makes Kurt feel a bit like he’s turning into Rachel, which is never ok.

What doesn’t help at all in the _slightest_ is that, apart from the bit where Kurt has apparently decided that Puck has pretty eyes and very distracting arms, he just misses Puck’s company. Misses having conversations – even if they had to end in feigned disdain and staged physical attacks – misses having Puck smile at him once in a while. It had sort of felt there for a while like they were friends; weird, fucked-up friends, but friends nonetheless. Now, of course, Puck has got his best friend back, and he doesn’t need Kurt anymore. It couldn’t be more painfully obvious that Puck was just using him to get what he wanted if Puck banged his head repeatedly against a locker while yelling it. And the sad part about _that_ , of course, is that Puck didn’t even pretend he was doing anything else. Kurt just let himself get distracted with the talking and the nose-breaking and the kissing and forgot all about what was actually going on. Now he’s thought that, of course, he can’t help but remember all the times when Puck’s smile didn’t ring quite true, where he seemed weirdly uncomfortable even while assuring Kurt that he was going to get him into Finn’s pants and, after some deep thinking that takes an entire biology class, Kurt comes to the conclusion that Puck is the same homophobic asshole he always was, he just got better at hiding it. Presumably to keep manipulating Kurt.

Kurt looks down at his notes for this class to find the only thing he’s written is: _sweet Jesus I’m turning into a character from Grey’s Anatomy_.

On the plus side, he’s getting along better with Finn than he ever has; he thinks it’s a combination of no longer feeling awkward on his side, and Finn now being super comfortable with his own sexuality, having experimented and realised that it definitely isn’t for him. Finn is finally looking happier; talking to both Quinn and Puck and being a lot less tortured and angry all the time, so at least something good came out of this whole mess. 

The only thing really confusing Kurt is the way Puck has just stopped acknowledging him altogether. Prior to whatever made Puck decide joining glee was a sensible idea, he put Kurt in dumpsters and threw water (and worse) balloons at him and shouted _fag_ at him in corridors and shoved him into lockers and locked him in closets and so forth. Now he’s acting like Kurt doesn’t even exist, like he’s not even worth _bullying_ anymore. And that stings because, really, when a guy doesn’t even want to beat you up anymore, that’s when you know you don’t stand a chance. Kurt sort of wants to ask what he did wrong, but he’s afraid of the answer – or of not getting any answer at all – and so leaves it well alone.

“You’re coming to the movies tonight, right?” Finn asks, as they’re on their way out of glee practice one afternoon. It’s a group trip to see something Kurt is undoubtedly going to hate, but the main actor is pretty hot and he’s sure there will be enough lamentable wardrobe choices to keep him happy, so it’ll probably be ok.

“I am,” Kurt agrees with a smile. He’s giving Mercedes a ride – she’s still wary of being in cars with him since he nearly killed them that time, but since she doesn’t have a car of her own she doesn’t really have much choice – and in any case, she’s worried about his state of mind at the moment, not that she’s said anything. Still, staying at home would just make her try and stage some kind of intervention, and Kurt cannot have that. For one thing, she’d probably make him admit that he’s somehow accidentally decided to fall for _Noah Freaking Puckerman_ and he hasn’t reached a point where he can say that out loud yet.

“Great.” Finn grins that sunny grin at him, claps him on the shoulder, and hurries off after Matt and Mike.

Kurt knows Puck is still sitting down, packing away his guitar, but he doesn’t turn around as he leaves because he’s not a _masochist_. And maybe if he keeps saying that enough times it might just about become true.

He realises he’s left his hat behind as he gets to the parking lot – Mr Schue’s dance routine was a bit too energetic and it kept falling off – and hurries back to reclaim it.

As he approaches the music room, he can hear singing coming from inside it. Soft, slow, male singing. He frowns, slowing down and unconsciously walking more lightly so his boots won’t sound on the hallway floor, creeping closer. 

Kurt knows the song. Of _course_ he knows the song. _Wicked_ is, after all, his favourite musical, and the songs are practically imprinted on his soul. And he knows _this_ song in particular because, maybe, occasionally, he may have shut himself in his room in the dark with it playing loudly on his ipod dock, though he didn’t cry along because he is, after all, _still not Rachel_.

Really, the more he looks at it, the whole no-longer-being-in-love-with-Finn thing actually gets better and better.

 

Anyway, maybe he just has some kind of internal _Wicked_ satnav, maybe it’s just weird coincidence, but spilling from the room is: “ _Don’t dream too far, don’t lose sight of who you are..._ ”

And although Kurt has known for at least the last half-minute, something in him is still startled when he edges close enough to discover that Puck, of all people, is alone in the music room playing _I’m Not That Girl_ on his guitar. 

One of these days, he’s going to figure out how Puck manages to sing girl songs without sounding the slightest bit emasculated. It’s quite the skill.

Mostly, Kurt is just trying desperately not to melt at the combination of _Puck_ and _Wicked_ , because that way will just end in endless misery and his life is fail enough at the moment as it is. And part of him wants to walk in and find out what the hell Puck thinks he’s doing, but he swallows the urge down, choosing instead to stand and watch and try not to hyperventilate or wonder how the hell his life took this very strange turn.

“ _Don’t wish; don’t start, wishing only wounds the heart..._ ”

Whoever Puck is trying to win back – whether it’s Quinn or Rachel or Santana or some other girl Kurt doesn’t even know about – he’s going to succeed. Kurt doesn’t see how anyone could even try to resist. And maybe that thought makes something break inside him, but he survived Finn and the whole ballad fiasco, so he can do this too. He _can_.

Puck finishes the song and Kurt must be breathing too loud or he must be standing a little too close to the door because Puck whirls around and sees him before he can hide. The expression on Puck’s face is momentarily very strange – a mixture of fear and vulnerability and something else Kurt can’t name – before it shuts down and there’s nothing but anger there.

“ _Jesus_ , Hummel,” he spits, “stalk much?”

Kurt isn’t sure he’s ever seen Puck this angry; he looks like he’s really considering throwing his guitar or a chair or something at Kurt, raw and uncontrolled and Kurt doesn’t know how the hell they got to this moment, but he’d really appreciate it if someone stopped and exposited for a while. He wants to stammer that he’s just trying to reclaim his hat when he realises that maybe he doesn’t like that hat that much after all.

“ _Well_?” Puck demands, all flashing eyes and bared teeth, and part of Kurt is genuinely scared.

Part of him is angry _back_. “Don’t worry,” he spits, calm and cool, “the fag’s already gone.”

He takes off down the corridor as fast as he can without actually running. Behind him, he hears a crash, like the chair Puck was sitting on has fallen over, but he’s already rounded the corner by the time the halls ring with the yell of: “Kurt!” He doesn’t go back.

Kurt fakes a smile all evening so hard it hurts, but if asked, he wouldn’t be able to say a single damn thing about the movie.

~

Five things happen the next day:

1\. The hockey team put Kurt in the dumpster.

2\. By lunchtime, every single boy on the team has a black eye on the left hand side.

3\. Puck misses glee practice because he’s being yelled at by half the adults working at the school, including Mr Schuester.

4\. Kurt fakes a migraine and goes home early.

 

5\. He no longer has any fucking idea what he’s supposed to think any more.

~

“Hey, Kurt,” Mr Schue says after the next glee practice – a fun-filled affair where Kurt doesn’t look anyone in the eye, Puck casually sexually harasses Santana until she punches him, and Tina and Artie spend equal amounts of time making out and bickering in whispers – “can I speak to you for a minute?”

Well, it’s not like the day can get much worse. “Sure,” Kurt shrugs, feeling everyone’s curious eyes on him as they trail out, presumably to continue arguing away from Mr Schuester and his you’ve-kicked-my-puppy expression that he gets every time they’re less than all smiles. 

He studies his nails – his cuticles are a mess, a horrible mixture of stress and dumpster diving – and patiently waits for whatever bit of wisdom Mr Schue feels he needs to impart. He’s a nice guy, he’s a good teacher, and he’s got all their backs which is always good to know, but really, the amount of things he _doesn’t_ see are just plain hilarious. Still, Kurt decides he’d better humour him as best he can, since Mr Schue’s wife faked being pregnant and stuff and that’s probably really depressing and psychologically disturbing, no matter how Mr Schuester is trying to paste smiles and showtunes over his pain.

“What happened, Kurt?” Mr Schue asks, just as Kurt finds a tiny white fleck on his left pinkie nail, attained while climbing out of the dumpster yesterday morning, and is having a quiet panic attack over it. “I know there’s something happening between you and Puck-”

Oh God. Really, Kurt gets that Mr Schue is sort of Finn’s father figure, Finn not having one of his own, and that’s sweet and all, but seriously, he already has a dad he isn’t talking to about this; he doesn’t need another one.

“There’s nothing happening between me and Puck,” he interrupts sharply. Too sharply, he realises a moment later, as Mr Schuester looks a little surprised and then almost amused. Fuck him. Kurt wants to burn all his ties anyway. _All of them_.

“I thought you were friends,” Mr Schue begins carefully.

Kurt ignores the treacherous little part of his brain that whispers _so did I_ and instead channels his very best Cheerfully Obnoxious Rachel Berry. “Are you a trained therapist, Mr Schue?” he asks. “Because if I start talking to you, you might undo all the work of my already existing therapist.”

His already existing therapist is basically Mercedes, but Mr Schuester doesn’t need to know that.

Mr Schuester ignores him. “You were getting along great,” he says, and he looks sort of saddened. Kurt feels like telling him he really shouldn’t take it all so _personally_ ; not that trying to be impersonal is helping him a whole lot. “I thought that was another one of glee club’s successes; how you’re all becoming friends in spite of your differences.”

Kurt swallows a very bitter laugh. “Mr Schue, most of glee club hate each other or are trying to steal each other’s boy-stroke-girlfriends or have gotten each other pregnant – or _haven’t_ gotten each other pregnant – or they’re struggling under the weight of unrequited crushes or are trying to avoid acknowledging how much they want to sleep with each other. You included, by the way.” Mr Schuester looks kind of stunned, and Kurt rewinds back through what he’s just said. “Not that you’re trying to sleep with us,” he adds quickly, flushing. “I just mean that at any given point at least one member of the club is crushing on you. That’s all.”

Mr Schue continues to say nothing.

“It’s ok,” Kurt offers. “I mean, we slap on smiles and go out and sing together like none of it matters, that’s showbiz and everything. And we are going to take regionals like an incredibly inappropriate sexual metaphor that I’m not going to say in front of my teacher.”

Finally, Mr Schue cracks a small smile. “As far as I can tell, Puck beat up the entire hockey team for you yesterday,” he says at last.

“But he won’t actually look at or speak to me,” Kurt shrugs. “Still, it’s better than when he was putting me in the dumpster every morning. It’s progress.”

Mr Schuester looks like he wants to ask about the dumpster thing – the dumpster thing that he _didn’t notice_ every single damn morning for nearly two years – but Kurt pushes himself off the desk he’s been perched on because this has gone on long enough and he’s developing a headache to go with his fucked-up cuticles and sudden reliance on calorie-filled dairy products, and actually, on further reflection, pining over Finn was _much_ more fun than this.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he says, “maybe you should ask Puck.”

Mr Schue smiles like this isn’t a totally insane and stupid suggestion. “Oh, I will.” He pats Kurt on the arm, and Kurt is almost about to shriek at him for touching his precious Alexander McQueen sweater when he recalls that Mr Schue is having that weird thing with Miss Pillsbury at the moment so he’s probably sanitised to the point of physical pain. It’s a wonder he still has skin left. “You know you can talk to me, Kurt? Any time.” 

“Thanks,” Kurt says vaguely, and adds Mr Schuester to the increasingly long list of people that he’s not talking to about his crush on Puck. Other people on this list include Mercedes, Quinn, his dad, Finn, Puck, oh, and _everyone else in the world ever_. He pushes together a real smile for Mr Schue’s sake, though he’ll deny it if asked later.

Kurt waits until he’s safely out of the practice room to sigh theatrically and mutter: “fuck my life. In the face. With a sharp object.”

He’s also aware, now, that if Mr “Oh, Hey Kurt, Are You Just Making Friends Over By That Dumpster?” Schuester has noticed that something’s really up, then it’s probably only a matter of time before everyone else picks up on it too.

~

Kurt has an afterschool appointment with Mercedes to come clean and wail pathetically at her about how he has no idea what’s good for him, and also to bitch about why there don’t seem to be any gay guys in Lima at all, what the hell, no wonder he has to keep falling for the unattainable, and also maybe to buy some new shoes because there are few things that new shoes can’t fix. However, Quinn catches him after biology, looking all wide-eyed and helpless, and asks if he can drive her to her doctor’s appointment. Kurt contemplates asking whether she can get Finn or Puck to do it, then supposes that things with both of them are still awkward and complicated for Quinn too.

“Sure,” he says, and then adds: “can I bring Mercedes?”

Quinn looks faintly bemused, but agrees.

Mercedes is actually quite excited to see the source of all the gossip and doesn’t mind skipping retail therapy.

“You do realise that it doesn’t have a mohawk, don’t you?” Kurt can’t help saying. 

Mercedes rolls her eyes. It’s “ _the baby_ ,” she says. “Shoot me for being curious.”

Quinn is far more relaxed today and so the drive over to the clinic is kind of fun, the three of them singing along to the radio and harmonising together to the point of actively ruining the songs. It’s like a very screwed-up girls hanging out kind of time, only instead of the mall they’re going to go make sure Quinn’s accidental baby is ok.

“So,” Kurt begins while they’re waiting and the receptionist is once again eyeing Kurt’s Louis Vuitton purse with a mixture of disdain and envy while clearly trying to work out if he’s just the right side of metro to get Quinn pregnant. Kurt rolls his eyes at her and turns back to Quinn, who has arched an eyebrow. “Do you have... plans?”

Quinn is absently flicking through a parenting magazine. Mercedes shoots Kurt a _you’re going to make her cry and then we’re going to have to do something other than splash smugly about in our Schadenfreude_ , but Kurt shrugs because if he’s going to make her cry, it might as well be in Doctor Wu’s waiting room rather than, say, in Spanish class.

“Well, I’m not going to get married to Puck and live in a freaking trailer,” she says, turning the page. She smiles slightly at Kurt. “I don’t know yet. I mean, both Puck and Finn want to be involved if I-” she hesitates for the first time, but continues: “if I do decide to keep the baby. Which I’m sure will be very confusing for her, but...”

“Just don’t let them help her with her homework,” Kurt says, which earns him a smile.

“We’ll all help you,” Mercedes cuts in. “You know we will.”

There’s a silence as they contemplate how exactly a baby brought up by the collective efforts of the glee club will turn out. Well, Kurt reflects after a moment, at least she’ll have a _fabulous_ fashion sense. And they can probably talk Rachel into _not_ putting her into the toddler pageant circuit.

“Thank you,” Quinn says, smile a little tremble-y.

“I’m not babysitting though,” Kurt cuts in before the sentimentality of the moment can suffocate them all. “She’ll only puke on my Versace and that would be terribly depressing.”

“We’ll go shopping for babysitting clothes,” Mercedes assures him, patting his arm, and sometimes Kurt wishes he weren’t so damn _easy_.

Doctor Wu arches a sarcastic eyebrow when both Kurt _and_ Mercedes trail in with Quinn. Noting this, Quinn smiles angelically and says: “oh, this is my lesbian girlfriend who I’ll be raising the baby with,” as she sits up on the examining table.

Mercedes looks like she wants to protest this but Kurt pokes her and she keeps her mouth shut.

Quinn doesn’t panic so much this time, when faced with the little person growing inside her – there’s something kind of unsettling about that, Kurt can’t help but think, but since he’s just about the only guy in their glee club who definitely _hasn’t_ fathered this kid, it’s not really his problem – and Mercedes has an uncharacteristically misty-eyed expression on her face, so Kurt just holds both of their hands and looks at the little lump on the screen and thinks _oh baby girl, you have_ no idea _what you’re letting yourself in for_.

It takes him a while to realise he’s grinning like an idiot at Puck’s little girl on the screen, and he really is in no way wondering if she’ll have his eyes.

Mercedes waits for the cloud of mushiness to dissipate and for them all to be safely back in Kurt’s car before she says: “ok, talk.”

Kurt makes a face. “Can we wait until I’m not driving?”

Quinn is looking all intrigued in the back seat, hands spread protectively over her stomach. Mercedes glances at her and says: “ok, yeah, let’s not drive into a tree while we’ve got a pregnant lady onboard. But the minute our lives aren’t in your hands, you are going to ‘fess up and stop holding out on me.”

She’s looking all stern and terrifying so Kurt obediently nods and reminds himself that saying it all out loud might make it sound ridiculous and then he might realise that this stupid infatuation with Puck is actually much less of a big deal than it currently seems.

Quinn leans forward. “What’s he ‘fessing up to?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Mercedes shrugs, “but since he’s currently looking like a damn tomato, I bet it’s _good_.”

Oh God. Kurt just _knows_ what’s coming next, and telling Quinn: _oh, by the way, I’ve fallen for your babydaddy_ cannot end well. Before she can say anything, he sighs and says: “all right, manicures at my house, but you two have got to be sympathetic. You have to _bleed_ sympathy. You have to act like my problems are so much more important than yours for at least five minutes.”

They both solemnly swear to.

With no more get-out clauses, Kurt drives them back to his house and they disappear into his basement. Quinn expresses great love for his decorating scheme and also gives him tips on how to make his nailbeds all soft and gorgeous rather than flaky and broken from stress, causing Kurt to reflect that maybe he will babysit for her, puke or not. Whoever said flattery got you nowhere clearly wasn’t doing it right.

In the end, with his nails all pretty and gleaming, Kurt finds both Mercedes and Quinn looking expectant and terrifying and so looks down at his feet and talks to his loafers rather than make eye contact. And he tells them everything, from the first _“so you want to bang Finn, right?”_ all the way through Puck breaking Karofsky’s nose (“Holy _shit_ ,” Mercedes breathes) to his first kiss in the sunshine to taking emotional advantage of Finn to Puck refusing to acknowledge him (apart from yelling at him and beating on the hockey team).

There is a very, very long silence after he’s finished.

“This is why you should talk to me,” Mercedes says after a while, “you stupid damn fool.” She hugs him anyway, all warm and sympathetic. Kurt risks a tentative look at Quinn, who is looking thoughtful but not angry with Kurt for hitting on not one but _both_ of her exes. Sort of exes. However she’s referring to them.

“Anyway,” Kurt says, “to summarise: I’m terribly, terribly fucked. Any ideas?”

Quinn smiles. “You need to make over Rachel Berry,” she says.

Kurt frowns, but Mercedes beats him to the: “um, _what_?”

“Just trust me,” Quinn says, and she’s smirking like she knows something they don’t, but not in a mean way. “Make over Rachel.”

“Yeah,” Kurt says, “‘cause she’s _really_ going to let me get near her with an eye pencil after what I did to her last time. Which is all your fault, by the way.”

“Well, she’s even less likely to let _me_ make her over,” Quinn points out. “And I’m hardly responsible for your need to sabotage Rachel’s chances with Finn.”

Mercedes is looking between them with open incredulity. “Seriously, Kurt,” she says, “you need to call me before you do _anything ever_. You have to stop letting all these screwed-up popular kids manipulate you.” She glances at Quinn. “No offence.”

“None taken,” Quinn shrugs. “I’ve said worse things about you behind your back.” She considers this. “And to your face.” 

“Actually, since they joined glee, they’re considerably less popular,” Kurt protests, ignoring Mercedes’ advice, before realising that this isn’t really a valid argument. He shrugs, smile a little lopsided. “Hater.”

Mercedes rolls her eyes. “Some days, I’m the only one _on_ your side,” she says.

Kurt pouts. “I’m not _Rachel_!”

“Seriously,” Quinn cuts in, “make her the most wholesome girl-next-door type you can – well, don’t make her _me_ – and it’ll all work out fine.”

Really, Kurt has had enough of plans and schemes and lying and if his little experiment with Puck taught him nothing else, it at least showed him that these things have a tendency of going horribly wrong and not at all the way they’re supposed to. But he’s tired and being proactive will at least stop him from digging out his _Congratulations On Being A Fag_ card and looking for completely nonexistent hidden meanings in it. 

“If you’re screwing with me,” he says sombrely, “I sincerely hope your baby is ugly.”

Mercedes and Quinn attempt to look sympathetic towards his man-pain, before both bursting into laughter.

“Oh my God, worst friends _ever_ ,” Kurt mutters.

~

Mercedes and Quinn’s sudden new friendship utterly baffles the glee club. Kurt settles for being entertained by it and being _not_ at _all_ jealous that they’re suddenly joined at the hip. They’re only supposed to be attached to his – deliciously well-formed – hips, after all (“if you think you’re stealing the role of Fairy Godmother away from me, you can think again,” Kurt informs Mercedes). Still, within a couple of days, Mercedes’ handiwork can clearly be spotted in Quinn’s clothing choices. Kurt has to give his girl snaps because she’s managed to do in a matter of days what he couldn’t do with weeks at his disposal: get Quinn to ditch all the virginal babydoll dresses and chastity ball wannabe floaty tops. The braids have gone too; one day Quinn has a scarf Kurt recognises as belonging to Mercedes tied around her head, and later on in the week it becomes evident that Mercedes is introducing her to the joyous world of hats. 

Kurt looks at Quinn genuinely laughing at something Tina’s saying, white trilby tilted over one eye, and honestly can’t see the captain of the Cheerios in her at all anymore. He wonders if Quinn misses that girl, especially when the rest of them so clearly _don’t_.

Mr Schue looks somewhat confused but nonetheless pleased when Quinn and Mercedes kick off the next glee rehearsal with a beautifully harmonised version of _Why Do Fools Fall In Love?_ Everyone else claps along with bemused expressions; Puck clearly forgets that he can’t stand Kurt because he turns around and mouths _what the fuck?_ at him before he seems to remember himself and his expression shuts down as he turns away.

For the first time in his life, Kurt actually contemplates biting his fingernails. Not that he does, of course, because that way lies tragedy and self-hatred, but he needs _something_ to take his frustration out on.

“You could sing _I Won’t Say (I’m In Love)_ ,” Mercedes suggests cheerily after practice. 

“We’ll sing back-up,” Quinn offers, faux-innocence writ large across her face.

“I can and will cut you both,” Kurt responds. In any case, contrary to what Mr Schue is trying to teach them and what Kurt spent all that time telling Finn, there are actually some things in life that cannot be solved through song. There are also things that can’t be solved with Disney either, which is sort of sad, but Kurt has enough things to mope about without adding that to the list. After all, becoming emo is this whole other thing and he really doesn’t think he could rock that look, though after a moment’s consideration he decides that eyeliner needs to factor much more in his life.

Rachel is currently talking Mr Schuester’s ear off about whatever crazed notion she’s had today, with appropriate annotated diagrams that she’s waving around, a glaring vision in plaid that kind of makes Kurt want to blind himself so he doesn’t have to look at it ever again. He turns away, wincing, to find Mercedes and Quinn looking expectant.

“I still don’t see how making over Rachel is going to help anything at all,” he can’t help pointing out.

Their matching _bitch, please_ looks are kind of disturbing, and Kurt regrets ever giving them the opportunity to actually hang out together.

“I hate you both,” he says.

Rachel’s obnoxiously bright voice drifts over: “and if we can persuade Principal Figgins to buy new spotlights for the auditorium I really think if would boost morale for the club. I really need to be better lit from my left-hand side, you see, in order to emphasize-”

“ _Hate_ ,” Kurt repeats, hitching his messenger bag further up on his shoulder and gliding over to grab Rachel’s arm, cutting her off mid-flow. “Hi Rachel I need to talk to you for a moment well actually for the next few hours but anyway we have to go now ok? Great we’ll see you tomorrow Mr Schue.”

He doesn’t miss the grateful look Mr Schue throws him as he hustles Rachel towards the door. She makes protesting noises, but Kurt digs in his fingers just a little and continues to propel her out of the room.

Puck, for some unknown reason, is hanging around in the corridor, like he’s waiting for something. Kurt assumes he’s waiting for Quinn – maybe her performance with Mercedes was enough to convince Puck that he really wants his babymama back again – and ignores the immediate raging jealousy that rushes through him because Quinn is his friend now, however weird it is to think that. Puck looks confusedly from Rachel to Kurt but two can play at this game and Kurt doesn’t even glance at him as he half-drags Rachel along with him.

“What’s going on?” Rachel practically squeaks.

“You’ll thank me for this later,” Kurt tells her. “Well, either that or you’ll cry, one of the two.”

He decides he must’ve hallucinated the stifled laugh from behind them.

Rachel’s room hasn’t gotten any less hideous, and Kurt briefly wonders if Rachel’s personality would render her disadvantaged enough to be eligible for _Extreme Makeover: Home Edition_ so they could come knock her house down and build her a new one from scratch; it kind of seems like the only option now. Then he reminds himself that he’s no longer in competition with Rachel – unless she accidentally winds up dating Puck again, and really, considering how fucked-up this year has been so far, that’s not actually an impossibility – and so he could try being nice. Slightly nice. Maybe.

It occurs to him that Rachel’s five-year-old pink and yellow room really coordinates kind of wonderfully with Finn’s cowboy wallpaper in terms of Interior Design Choices That Make Kurt Throw Up In His Mouth A Little Bit, and that maybe they’ll make an adorable and kind of brain-damaged couple, if only he can push things a little bit so they’ll stop looking awkwardly at each other and actually _do something_.

Rachel is sat on her bed looking cowed as Kurt goes through her wardrobe, dividing her clothes into ‘keep’ and ‘burn’ piles. The ‘keep’ pile has one pair of shoes, two skirts and a jacket on it. The ‘burn’ pile has everything else Rachel owns on it. Kurt tosses a frilled pinafore dress onto the heap and wonders if Rachel’s two dads are _actually_ gay, because surely they wouldn’t allow these fashion travesties to take place in their house if they were. Behind him, Rachel makes a small ‘eep’ of a sound and Kurt remembers that Finn seems to like Rachel’s clothes despite the fact most of the fabrics make them look like they’ve been made out of damn drapes, á la _The Sound Of Music_. And those are the most tolerable of her outfits. He sighs, flicking through the burn pile to extract two dresses, a skirt and the dreaded turquoise pantsuit, bundling them up in his arms.

“Right,” he says, “you can keep everything that’s on the floor.”

Rachel looks doubtfully at the clothes in his arms. Kurt doesn’t even want to be holding them anymore; he feels like he’s breaking out in a rash just from touching them. “What are you going to do with those?”

“They’re coming home with me,” Kurt tells her, “because you won’t burn them if I leave them here and really, they cannot be allowed to exist anymore.”

“Oh.” Rachel frowns as Kurt dumps the clothes on the bed and steers her towards her mirror. “Why are you doing this, Kurt? Because if you’re trying to sabotage my chances with Finn again-”

“Two things,” Kurt interrupts. “One: I’m so over Finn. Two: when I next decide to screw with you – and there will be a next time, because you irritate the shit out of me most of the time – I will come up with something new and creative. I will not do the same thing all over again. Ok?”

“Ok,” Rachel says meekly, and then smiles a little slyly up at him. “I irritate you less than I used to though, don’t I?”

“Yes,” Kurt allows, because he hasn’t said one nice thing to Rachel since he got here and there’s a certain degree of meanness he doesn’t want to sink to, “but if you tell anyone I said that I’ll tell Jacob you’re a lesbian and make sure he does a nice long blog entry _all_ about it.”

Rachel sits obediently still while Kurt does her make-up – keeping it light and fresh because, amusing as ho-ing her up was, that isn’t the objective this time – and moves the parting in her hair and eventually finishes the look by draping the lilac scarf from around his own neck around hers. 

“There,” he says, “girl-next-door eat your heart out.”

For once in her life, Rachel appears to have been rendered speechless. Eventually, her lips curl into a smile.

“I’m going to hug you now.”

Kurt sighs. “Ok. But just this once.”

He’ll never confess to hugging her back.

~

Mercedes comes over to help him burn Rachel’s clothes in an empty oil drum in front of the garage. Kurt’s dad does come out to ask him what he’s doing, but walks back inside again when Kurt uses the words _fashion travesty_ , a fond smile on his lips.

Kurt stares morosely into the flames. “I want him, even though he has a fucking _mohawk_ and he makes _Rachel_ look emotionally well-adjusted and he would probably break my face if he knew.”

Mercedes wraps a warm arm around his waist and Kurt leans into her. “I know, honey. I know.”

~

Rachel doesn’t turn the head of every boy in school when she walks in the next morning, all tiny pleated skirt and v-neck t-shirt, but the scarf accessorises the outfit perfectly and her hair is all loose and wavy and pretty, and the touches of make-up Kurt painstakingly drilled her in applying have made her positively _glow_.

Finn walks into a door. Kurt takes this to mean they’re on the right track.

“Isn’t it kind of weird, setting your ex-boyfriend up with someone else?” Kurt asks Quinn later as they’re walking to English.

“Very,” Quinn agrees, “but I’m knocked up and I hang out with losers and I’m wearing second-hand leggings right now so, you know, it’s not any _more_ weird than everything else.” She sighs. “This school year is fucked up.”

“Word,” Kurt agrees.

He catches sight of Puck staring after Rachel with a faintly mystified expression, and his teeth clench. If he’s prettied Rachel up just to make Puck lust after her again, he might actually have to indulge in some incredibly shameful weeping at some point. In a dark room. Listening to Judy Garland. It will be very tragic.

Well, either that or he’ll have to _wax Rachel’s fucking eyebrows right off_.

Later, Kurt is distracted from these thoughts because the hockey team is apparently offended by his existence again and decide to spend a chunk of their lunch hour putting him into the dumpster. Part of Kurt longs for some creativity on their side – after all, dumpsters and slushie facials are getting really _old_ – but he knows that creativity would end in far more physical pain and he’s not good with physical pain unless it’s from waxing.

“Point proven, boys,” he says, sprawled atop the garbage bags as they all stand there looking menacing and so pleased with themselves. It occurs to Kurt that maybe the brightest part of their day is putting perceived losers like himself into dumpsters, and that’s just plain fucking _sad_. He makes a mental note to pity them. “Now, are any of you going to hit me or hit _on_ me? No? Then you’re all dismissed.”

Half the team actually leave. It’s kind of depressing. The other half linger long enough to spit some unimaginative insults at him before they wander off, high-fiving each other and laughing. Kurt sniffs disdainfully and then sort of wishes he hadn’t because, you know, _garbage_.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking _kidding_ me.”

Puck has appeared from... somewhere, and is staring at Kurt sitting in the dumpster, expression impossible to interpret.

“Sorry they got there first?” Kurt asks, and is a little shocked by the acid in his tone.

“Who was it?” Puck demands. “Because I’ll go and-”

“Oh my God, just _stop_ ,” Kurt says. “Seriously, you have to stop attacking people because sooner or later you’re going to get kicked out and then you won’t be able to compete at regionals so _we_ won’t be able to compete at regionals and then Rachel will go mad and probably go on some insane killing spree and really, I’m far too pretty to die this young.”

Puck smirks at that, just slightly. “Seriously, Hummel-” he cuts himself off, frowning. “Are you wearing _eyeliner_?”

Kurt shifts. “Maybe.” He scowls as Puck’s smirk broadens just a little. “What? It makes my eyes pop.”

“It does,” Puck agrees disarmingly.

Kurt pictures leaping out of the dumpster and kissing Puck. He then pictures his head smacking off the tarmac. He can’t really imagine that having to get his skull sewn back together will do anything for his hair. 

“Look-” Puck begins, but Kurt doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“You don’t have to defend my honour,” he interrupts. “In fact, I don’t even know why you’re bothering, seeing as how you don’t actually want to be anywhere near me or acknowledge my existence at all.” He should stop speaking, but he doesn’t. “If all you got out of hanging out with me those weeks was to stop casually using ‘fag’ then that’s great, it is, but I’m sick of you using me as an excuse to beat on people because you’re frustrated because Quinn or Rachel or Santana or whoever won’t fuck you anymore, ok?”

Puck looks kind of startled. “You think that’s what I’m doing?”

Kurt shrugs. “You gonna tell me that I’m wrong?”

Puck opens his mouth, closes it again. Swallows. “Seriously, Hummel, who put you in the damn dumpster?”

“I _don’t need_ to you beat people up for me,” Kurt snaps, because this conversation is making his head hurt and he would actually prefer it if Puck went back to acting like he didn’t exist because it’s hard to be around him now he’s no longer oblivious to his – impractical, traitorous – feelings.

Something that looks almost upset flashes across Puck’s face before his expression becomes cold and distant. “I guess you don’t,” he says.

Kurt sighs, resting his hands on the edge of the dumpster. “Just... stop,” he says quietly. “Please.”

Puck nods, sharp and abrupt, and then offers Kurt a hand. Kurt ignores it. “I can do it myself,” he points out. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

Puck doesn’t wince, but his eyes narrow a little. He withdraws his hand and Kurt pulls himself out of the dumpster, landing on the tarmac, picking up his bag. He’s got a while before class, enough time to clean himself up and change.

They walk back to school in silence, not looking at each other. Finn almost runs into them at the door.

“Hey,” he says to Kurt, “I heard the hockey team got their hands on you, I was just coming to see if you were ok.”

Say what you like about Finn, but he is _sweet_. And really pretty, Kurt can’t help thinking. He may not be the be-all and end-all now, but he’s still ridiculously good-looking, and it’s kind of a pity that it doesn’t matter anymore.

“I’m fine,” Kurt says, and turns to maybe say goodbye to Puck or smile at him kind of wistfully or something equally lame, but the other boy has already disappeared.

Kurt _isn’t_ disappointed. Honestly.

~

Kurt isn’t even sure how he got into this situation, but he wishes like hell he was anywhere but here. _Anywhere_.

“You just... you don’t seem happy at the moment,” his dad says, eyes on the television, hands twisting in his lap. He’s trying and Kurt appreciates that, he really does, but right now he’d rather his father didn’t give a damn about him if it meant not having to have this conversation.

“I’m fine,” Kurt promises him, attention fixed on his nail buffer. If he buffs them any harder he’s going to end up actually sanding them away, but he’s uncomfortable enough as it is right now; he can’t look at his dad.

“Is this a... glee club thing?” his dad asks, almost tentatively. “They’re not discriminating against you again are they? ‘Cause I can go straight down to that school and-”

Kurt smiles a little, because he loves how much his dad tries in spite of not being a hundred percent comfortable with Kurt’s sexuality himself. 

“It’s not a glee thing,” he promises quickly, cutting off his dad’s potential tirade. He glances up to find his dad is looking worriedly at him, and the last thing Kurt wants to do is worry his dad. “It’s a boy thing,” he adds, “so we don’t have to discuss it.”

He can see his dad visibly steeling himself and before Kurt can stop him or pretend to have a seizure or whatever, his dad says: “what kind of a boy thing?” He sounds a little wary and he’s not looking Kurt in the eyes but he’s trying and, God, that kills him a little bit.

“It’s no big deal,” Kurt says swiftly. “Just... I like this guy and he is never going to be interested in me in a million years. That’s all.”

Mercedes is going to have to fix his ruined nails tomorrow, and he forces himself to put the damn buffer down on the couch beside him.

His dad is staring at the television like his life depends on it, but after a long while he manages: “is it that Finn guy?”

Kurt winces. “No.”

He sees the exact moment his dad works it out but mercifully he doesn’t say it aloud. Instead, he offers Kurt a smile and then reaches for the remote. “You can do better,” he says quietly. “You _deserve_ better.”

Then he turns the television up and Kurt blinks until his eyes are completely clear.

~

At school the next day Kurt puts up with exactly two minutes and thirty-four seconds of Finn’s whining about Rachel – he knows because he’s timing it on his watch – before he holds a hand up, cutting Finn off.

“I’ve decided that from hereon out I’m only going to focus on my own Feelings Of Inner Pain And Anguish rather than everyone else’s. Sure, it may make me less well-rounded as a person, but the good thing is that I won’t even care.”

Finn frowns, though he doesn’t look particularly hurt, and after a moment, he says: “you have Feelings Of Inner Pain And Anguish?” He looks empathetic. “I mean, I’m not entirely sure what ‘anguish’ is, but... you have inner pain?”

Kurt shrugs. “Maybe?”

Finn slings an arm around his shoulders. Kurt reflects that it’s sort of sad how up until a couple of months ago he would’ve given his right arm and every Marc Jacobs item in his wardrobe to get this much contact, but now that he can get it on a semi-regular basis, he doesn’t even it want it anymore. Still, he appreciates the sentiment so he momentarily leans his head against Finn’s shoulder. There’s the sound of a locker door slamming behind them, and Kurt carefully extracts himself from Finn’s arm. When he turns though, there’s only Puck, walking away, shoulders hunched underneath his letterman jacket.

“Look,” Finn says, “I’m not Puck or anything, but... if there’s someone bothering you or whatever, I can totally beat them up for you.”

Kurt wonders exactly how he got to the point where more than one hot footballer is offering to solve his problems through violence for him, and then decides he definitely shouldn’t point out that most of the time when Finn and Puck were beating on each other over the whole “you _knocked up_ my _girlfriend_!” thing, Puck won. 

“Thanks,” he says, aware that he kind of means it. 

At lunch, most of the students run out of the cafeteria to see a fight going on outside. Kurt sips morosely at his cranberry juice, picks at his salad and is really not at all surprised when Tina comes running in, looking kind of startled and announcing: “Puck’s fighting half the football team!”

Most the table turns to look at Kurt. 

“Um, what?” he asks.

“Well, _you’re_ kind of his friend,” Artie points out, a slight trace of accusation in his voice.

“He hasn’t spoken to me in forever,” Kurt points out. He shrugs, trying for nonchalant while Mercedes just looks pitying. “I don’t know, he has issues. A wide variety of issues. And possibly that mohawk has grown through his skull into his brain. Did I mention the issues?”

Under the table, Mercedes squeezes his knee to shut him up. She’s creased his pants but on the other hand his voice was bordering on hysterical, and if she slapped him right across the face in the cafeteria people would probably ask awkward questions. Kurt’s had enough of awkward questions for the day.

“ _Issues_ ,” Kurt mutters darkly, and spends a moment reminding himself that reaching for chocolate is not _ever_ the answer. Really.

Puck turns up for glee practice with a split lip, two black eyes and a grim, fiery expression that’s half triumph and half something terrible that Kurt can’t even name. Mr Schue does not look at all happy and the rest of the club sort of edge around Puck, careful, as though afraid of actual physical injury if they get too close.

“He’s not talking,” Finn shrugs, as Mercedes, Tina and Artie try to grill him for details. “He just picked a fight with the guys and let them kick the shit out of him.” He looks kind of sad and frustrated, and when they next glance over, Puck is glaring back at them, all bared teeth and simmering fury. It’s no wonder that practice is falling apart and Mr Schuester is practically pulling his hair out. Kurt would actually like half an hour with three kinds of product to fix Mr Schue’s hair, but that isn’t the issue right now.

Quinn, dressed in one of Mercedes’ loosest, brightly-coloured t-shirts, teamed with leggings and a delicious pair of ballet flats, hair carefully and elaborately curled, has been studying Puck carefully. She sighs and leaves the rest of them behind, walking over. Kurt can’t make out what she’s saying and Puck’s face is still a mask of anger, but after a moment Quinn forcibly grabs his hand and pulls it towards her stomach, pressing his palm against the bump and holding it there until his expression softens. It’s kind of useful, Kurt reflects, that the baby is moving so often these days.

Kurt smiles slightly, watching both Quinn and Puck grin fondly at their unborn child, and pretends something isn’t tearing just a little in his chest.

Really, Kurt knows he’s a teenager and he’s a fucking gay kid in Lima, Ohio, and his sparkling lovely future isn’t going to happen for a few more years, but seriously, he has no idea why his life has to have so much damn _angst_ in it. Sighing, he turns his attention to where Rachel and Finn are belting out _Addicted To Love_ while no one listens because they’re all too focused on their own social problems and/or attempts to bring down the glee club from within – not looking _too_ pointedly at Brittany and Santana or anything – and, as he looks at the ridiculously lusting looks passing between Rachel and Finn, reflects that if they don’t get together soon, Kurt is going to have to choke a bitch. Or get Mercedes to do the actual choking for him, but the point still stands. 

“Even your hair is moping,” Mercedes observes beside him, reaching to push a couple of locks back into place.

“Bite your tongue,” Kurt responds, “my hair is _fabulous_.”

“Oh honey,” Mercedes sighs. “I didn’t want to point it out earlier, but your shoes don’t match your purse.”

Kurt could cry, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans his head into Mercedes’ shoulder and thinks, with absolute determination: _this has got to stop_.

The only good thing about this whole moment is that Rachel is wearing an outfit Kurt picked out over the phone this morning so his eyeballs don’t want to spontaneously start bleeding when he looks at her, but even that relief is short-lived when he re-thinks Mercedes’ words and realises that, right now, Rachel is _better dressed than him_.

“Oh my God,” he groans quietly, and Mercedes, being the fabulous, fabulous woman that she is, says nothing accusatory at all, just wraps an arm around him and offers to let him try out her new mascara after practice is over.

 _This has got to stop_ , Kurt repeats over and over in his head on the way home and after a while, he almost believes it to be true.

~

Quinn faints the first time the baby kicks. They’re in glee rehearsal and she falls to the floor. Puck and Finn are at her sides in moments, like they were that time that enabled Rachel to work out what was going on in the first place, only Quinn isn’t conscious this time to bitch at them about being ridiculous and overprotective.

Mike and Matt line up chairs for her to lie on as Puck and Finn lift her between them, and Kurt donates his fluffy angora sweater to rest her head on. Rachel, being the sensible one, runs for the nurse, while Mr Schue does other sensible things like checking Quinn’s pulse and saying soothing things to the panicking club as a whole.

Somewhere around the time they all decided to sing _Lean On Me_ , the baby became the collective property of the glee club, Kurt realises, regardless of who the father is. He almost feels sorry for that little girl in Quinn’s belly, who is going to grow up with twelve of the most incompetent, pushy and determined parents in the world, but on the whole he thinks it’ll be a good thing.

By the time the nurse – a competent, actual medically trained nurse who at no point tries to drug any of them with fake vitamins – has established that Quinn is fine, just a freakish vortex of pregnancy hormones, and Quinn has regained consciousness, and Mr Schue has made her a cup of tea from the teacher’s lounge, everyone has kind of calmed down and is cheerfully discussing baby names. Rachel is loudly campaigning for Idina and Quinn isn’t bitching at her for it, like maybe a truce is forming between them, and Kurt looks at where both Finn and Puck are holding Quinn’s hands with a small smile. Quinn isn’t crying but her eyes are moist, and all of them are kind of shaky, and Kurt interlaces his fingers with Mercedes until his breathing evens out a little.

Artie offers Quinn a ride home with his dad and wheels off to the parking lot with her on his lap, Santana and Brittany tagging along behind, while everyone else packs up. Kurt has a standing date at the mall with Mercedes and Tina, but asks them both to wait by his car. Rachel leads the stunned-looking Finn out with a small hand fisted in the sleeve of his semi-hideous sweater, presumably to offer him support of some description, which leaves Puck as the only person without any kind of emotional safety-net. Kurt waits until the door has closed behind everyone else and is trying to work out what to say when Puck sinks into a chair, head in hands, clearly unaware that Kurt is there.

Words are still failing him, so Kurt clears his throat slightly. Puck’s head whips up but there’s no trace of venom or disdain or anything on his face, just a sort of exhausted blankness.

“Hey,” Kurt says quietly, carefully, someone approaching a wounded animal.

Puck’s mouth twists a little. “What do you want?” he asks, his voice cracking a little, lacking its usual confrontational tone.

Kurt steels himself and walks over. “Don’t say anything,” he says quietly, “and just pretend for five minutes that I’m not me and you’re not you, ok?” Puck frowns as Kurt stands in front of him. “Stand up,” he orders, and Puck does. He’s unnervingly tall – not as tall as Finn, but still definitely taller than Kurt – but what Kurt is doing is for Puck’s own good – and not at all for his own benefit, as he will probably have to explain to Mercedes in great detail later, maybe over lattes – so he doesn’t back down, and wraps his arms around Puck. The other boy freezes and for one long moment Kurt thinks he’s going to wound up punched, but when he doesn’t let go Puck seems to relax into it, head dropping to rest against Kurt’s shoulder, breath a slow exhale. Puck is shaking, just slightly, barely enough to notice, and Kurt reflects that it must be pretty damn terrifying to be bringing an actual kid into the world.

It kind of puts his own problems into perspective.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but eventually Kurt’s phone goes off in his bag, and Puck pulls away like he’s been burned. Kurt hurries to answer it – it’s Mercedes, demanding to know where he is – half-tensed for a blow that never falls. When he turns around again, the choir room door is banging closed, and Kurt smiles ruefully because he wasn’t expecting any different.

The mall is brightly-coloured and inviting and Kurt spends an enjoyable afternoon indulging in retail therapy with Mercedes and Tina, heading home laden with scarves he doesn’t need, a delicious new raspberry-flavoured lipgloss the girls wouldn’t let him leave without buying, and also one new pair of shoes because it’s been that kind of day, the kind of day that needs to end with new shoes.

He calls Quinn and she cries down the phone in a happy way for a while, and just before he goes to bed Kurt gets a text from Puck, saying, simply: _thanks_.

~

Wednesdays are a formula that Kurt is more than used to and one he’s never tried to do anything about, so when faced with a grinning, knuckle-cracking baseball team he takes the inevitable trip to the dumpsters with nothing more than a sigh. It’s done with less malice than when the football team do it, for one thing, it’s far more _impersonal_ , and in any case they usually put him in the paper and recycling dumpster, so though he winds up with papercuts and little annoying slivers of paper all over him, the smell is far more palatable and he doesn’t have to go wash his hair in a bathroom sink. Which is always a plus; he can never get the back to dry properly, and sitting in chemistry with the back of his hair a mess is always a soul-destroying experience. The only downside is that the baseball guys are kind of fond of closing the lid of the dumpster on him, but years of this have made him no longer claustrophobic, and at least he isn’t being suffocated by yesterday’s uneaten lunch menu.

Kurt says nothing at all and daydreams about the time when Vera Wang clothing will be a regular part of his existence as the lid is closed. There isn’t a whole lot else to do, and getting upset about all this is not a valid way of spending his time; these guys are going to be stuck in Lima for the rest of their lives and they’ll never be happy, and it isn’t even resentment that’s making him think that, because it’s true. His eventual future may never match up to the castles in the air he’s so fond of building, but at least Kurt is secure in the knowledge he’s going to get the hell out of this state without letting the door hit his ass on the way out. They won’t see him for the dust kicked up from his fabulous Prada shoes, and really, it’s enough to make him smile in spite of it all.

“Grinning to yourself in a dumpster,” a voice says from above, as the lid is thrown open. “Well, isn’t that just really _normal_ , Hummel.”

Kurt looks up into Puck’s still-bruised face, and shrugs minutely. “It’s better than _crying_ ,” he can’t help pointing out. “That would make my mascara run.”

Puck looks simultaneously amused and uncomfortable. “I... have nothing to say to that.”

Kurt sighs and pulls his nail file from his pocket since he has nothing better to do with his time, turning his attention away from Puck and the fact that he is possibly stalking him now. He wonders idly if they’re going to return to the bullying now, and he tries to ignore the fact that he finds that thought faintly reassuring, because he refuses to get _Stockholm Syndrome_. That’s just... that’s just no.

“You’re not gonna get out?” Puck asks, sounding confused.

“If I’m not in here for long enough they’ll only come back and put me in again,” Kurt responds, because, unlike some people he could mention, he actually learns from experience. He glances up at Puck’s puzzled expression and adds: “everyone has their own style, you haven’t actually patented dumpster tossing. You should probably shut the lid and go, I don’t want to waste more any of your time.”

Puck looks around briefly, and then before Kurt can ask for clarification, he puts his hands on the rim of the dumpster and easily swings himself in, landing on the cardboard boxes stacked beside Kurt.

“Um, are you having some kind of aneurism?” Kurt asks, before he can stop himself. “And you could have _crushed me_.”

He’s inwardly panicking but does his best not to let it show because just because he has no idea what Puck thinks he’s doing doesn’t mean he has to lose whatever semblance of cool he’s managed to create.

“Dude, I play, like, all sports ever,” Puck points out, ignoring the _are you potentially brain-damaged?_ comment. “I totally have co-ordination.”

“You forget; I’ve seen you dance,” Kurt tells him, and is faintly relieved when Puck cracks a smile. It feels almost normal, until he remembers that, for them, this _isn’t_ normal; Puck doesn’t talk to him and when he talked to him before he was faking it so he’d get Finn back. Recalling this, he turns his attention back to his nails, letting his smirk fall from his mouth.

“You ok?” Puck asks, sounding almost wary, a couple of very quiet minutes later.

“Fine,” Kurt responds shortly, and becomes aware that he isn’t so much filing his nails as _sanding_ them. Mercedes threatened to slushie him herself unless he stopped damaging his nails through stress, so he forces himself to stop and puts the file away.

Puck looks around them at the abandoned sheets of paper and metal sides. “So, this is what the inside of the dumpster looks like, huh?”

“Yeah,” Kurt says, “it’s almost like a second home by now. I’ll probably miss this when I leave high school.”

Puck raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“No,” Kurt replies. “Not at all.”

Puck smirks, leaning his head against the back, apparently getting comfy. “So, how long do you have to stay in here?”

Kurt checks the time on his iPhone. “Ten more minutes should do it. Mercedes said she’d get my lunch for me.”

Something angry passes across Puck’s face, his fingers curling into his palms momentarily, before he seems to force it back down.

“You’re not going to beat them up,” Kurt observes, tone carefully neutral because even he’s not really sure what point he’s trying to make.

“You asked me to stop,” Puck points out, quiet, and when Kurt finally looks at him he sees Puck is staring back, something intense in his eyes that Kurt has to glance away from because it kind of makes him want to burst into miserable, angsty song, and this isn’t _High School Musical_ and he won’t get away with it. Which is just as well, because Kurt would rather come into school tomorrow clad head to toe in Walmart than admit to knowing the words to _any_ of those songs.

“And you listened,” Kurt observes, sounding far more surprised than he meant to. He clears his throat awkwardly and looks down at his boots, trying to establish if they’ve gotten scuffed at any point. “I suppose you need to stop looking like your face had a run-in with a brick.”

“These totally make me look manly and awesome,” Puck tells him, sounding kind of offended, gesturing at the lingering remains of the bruises on his face. 

“Even _Santana_ told you that you looked like an idiot,” Kurt responds.

Puck shrugs, causing a small avalanche of sheets of paper. “She’s too busy screwing Brittany these days. Or ‘dating’ her, whatever.”

It’s so nice to hear Puck’s refreshing view of dating, Kurt thinks acidly, before registering what Puck actually said. “They’re _what_?”

Puck looks incredulous. “You know, you have _no_ gaydar at all. Which is weird, seeing as how you’re totally gayer than that Adam Lambert dude, only with less glitter.”

Kurt makes a mental note to bring more glitter into his life. And also not to ask Puck how the hell he knows who Adam Lambert is.

“I suspected,” he protests. “I just kind of felt like if I asked Santana if she and Brittany had a thing going on, they would never find my body.”

Puck laughs. “Santana’s ok,” he says. “I mean, sure, she’s kind of a bitch, but she’s ok.”

Kurt reminds himself that being jealous of a girl Puck isn’t even dating and who is apparently a little bit of a lesbian is really stupid and needlessly masochistic.

“She doesn’t like me,” he points out, trying not to sound pathetic and as much of a loser as he so patently is.

“She doesn’t like _anyone_ ,” Puck shrugs. “Don’t take it personally or anything.”

Kurt smiles slightly and tries to ignore the fact that they’re sitting side by side in a dumpster, close enough to touch if he shifted his shoulder just slightly, though he doesn’t dare do that just yet. Or at all. After all, he went through all this with Finn, and gratuitous amounts of touching don’t get you want you want and they kind of make you hate yourself a bit, and Kurt has enough people hating on him already without adding himself to the mix. So he doesn’t move, and instead stares up at the rectangle of sky through the open dumpster lid, and hopes his heart isn’t hammering loud enough for Puck to hear because that won’t help anything at all.

“This kind of doesn’t suck as much as I thought it would,” Puck remarks after a moment, gesturing vaguely with one hand at their surroundings. Kurt thinks about telling him there’s a whole world of difference between _getting in_ a dumpster and being _thrown in_ , but he’s not sure that he could even explain, or that Puck would get it if he did. 

Instead, he asks: “why did you even get in here?”

Puck shrugs, looking intently at a crushed box beneath his sneakers. “I figured I might as well keep you company while you were stuck in here.”

Kurt openly stares at him, and when Puck raises his head their eyes catch and Kurt thinks with a sudden, aching desperation he’s never felt before: _oh God, please kiss me, please_. Puck doesn’t, because he doesn’t have superhuman abilities, no matter what he’s trying to convince the rest of them, but neither does he look away. Kurt hopes that he isn’t blushing, but he probably is, and Puck’s mouth opens, just slightly, shifting towards Kurt in such a tiny way that it’s almost imperceptible. 

Much as he likes to pretend his bitchy remarks are quipped straight off the cuff, sharp and improvised, Kurt does tend to think through what he says before he says it, carefully and thoroughly.

“Does... this mean we’re friends now?”

This is why he thinks things through, because when he _doesn’t_ think, stupid things like that come out of his mouth, and he wants to bury his head in his hands and make a helpless moaning sound of humiliation. He forces himself not to, though, because this situation is stupid enough as it is.

Puck’s face shuts down eerily fast, closing off completely. “We weren’t ever friends,” he responds shortly.

“I know,” Kurt says, missing the flicker of surprise in Puck’s eyes because he can’t even bring himself to look at him. He suspects his cheeks are flaming, though from shame, not embarrassment. “Please get out now.”

Puck hesitates. “Look, Hummel-”

Kurt forces himself to keep his cool because he’s already screwed up enough today, and says: “get _out_ ,” voice low and sharp and dangerous. He’s had too much confirmed, more than he wanted confirmed, and while he is definitely not going to cry in a dumpster – both for the sake of the tattered remains of his pride and also his make-up – he would at least like to sit in here and make miserable faces before he has to go and face his friends.

Something in his voice must be serious enough for Puck, who stops looking like he’s flailing for words – what the hell can he have to say, anyway, now he’s said _that_? Does he want to insult Kurt’s outfit as well? – and pushes himself to his feet. Kurt gets a sort of sick satisfaction in noting that Puck gets out of the dumpster with considerably less grace than Kurt does – practice does make perfect after all – though when he’s out he turns around and offers a hand to Kurt.

Kurt stares at the hand for a long moment and then chucks a box at him.

Puck smiles mirthlessly. “I guess I deserved that,” he says, and turns away.

When Kurt is sure he’s almost definitely gone, he kicks the side of the dumpster, boot connecting with a satisfying clang.

“I don’t need this,” he says quietly, “I really don’t.”

Then there’s nothing left to do but get out.

~

A couple of days later, Kurt decides that he has really had enough of everyone else’s romantic angst.

“Ok, Finn,” he says, catching up with him in the corridor, “at some point today, you’re going to get Rachel alone, kiss her, and then ask her to be her girlfriend. Ok?”

Finn looks anxious and doubtful. “Today?”

“Today,” Kurt agrees. “Man up, Hudson.”

Finn exhales slowly. “Ok.”

Kurt raises a fist, and, after a moment of staring doubtfully at him, Finn bumps it with his own.

“Huh,” he says quietly to himself, watching Finn walk away.

~

The school would undoubtedly be full of buzzing gossip about Finn and Rachel getting together, only no one actually cares about the social life of the glee club, despite Rachel’s best efforts. Kurt does find Jacob weeping in the boys’ bathroom at lunch, but that’s a whole other disturbing thing he doesn’t want to get into, so he backs away and leaves him to it. Anyway, Kurt feels a small sense of triumph at having sorted this all out, despite the fact Quinn is looking smug and claiming all responsibility. Kurt considers asking her what a weird mess her brain must be at the moment, and then decides not to. If she’s happy her ex has finally gotten together with the girl he’s spent half the school year eyeing up, then that’s all to the good, and he won’t push it with her. The whole huge-amounts-of-hormones thing must be helping too, in any case. Maybe pregnancy hormones are like numbing drugs or something? They can only hope.

Kurt has barely been home half an hour when someone bangs on his front door. Like, _really_ bangs on his front door, like they’re half planning on knocking it down. His dad is still at the garage so Kurt approaches it with a sense of trepidation, but when he peeks through the spy-hole, he can only see Puck. Whatever else has or hasn’t happened between them, Kurt is fairly sure Puck isn’t going to kill him, and if he _was_ going to kill him, he is at least smart enough not to do it on Kurt’s doorstep.

He pulls the door open and steps out, carefully shutting it behind him. “What-” he begins, but he doesn’t know how to follow that up.

Puck looks confused and conflicted and just a little bit frantic. Kurt has _never_ seen him look like this. “You’re not dating Finn,” he says.

“I know,” Kurt replies blankly. He tries again. “What-”

“You’re _not_ dating Finn,” Puck says again, eyes dark and earnest and Kurt is so, so confused now. Before he can once again tell Puck that, _no_ , he is really _not_ dating Finn which he should probably know by now, WTF, Puck backs him up against the wall and kisses him. It’s hot and desperate and not in the slightest bit hesitant and Kurt is completely and utterly stunned, so stunned that he freezes for just a second too long before he remembers to kiss Puck back, and by the time his brain kicks into gear, Puck is already pulling away.

Puck has a horrible habit of rendering Kurt speechless and it doesn’t look like it’s going to end anytime soon.

“Um,” Kurt says, with dazzling eloquence.

Puck is looking anywhere but at him, scuffing the ground with the toe of one sneaker. “This was a stupid idea,” he mutters, turning away.

Kurt finally unfreezes and grabs Puck’s arm before he leaves. “You kissed me,” he says breathlessly.

“Points for observation,” Puck responds, sounding a little bitter. “Now, I have to go find an excuse to kick the shit out of someone I don’t know to piece my ego back together, so if you could let the fuck go, that’d be great.”

“You _kissed_ me,” Kurt repeats, something approaching delight creeping into his voice.

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Puck says, staring at him. “Really, Hummel, let go.”

Kurt tightens his grip, decides to take the initiative, and pulls Puck closer, standing on his toes to kiss him. He’s tensed, part of him still not sure whether Puck is going to punch him or not, but when Puck makes a soft noise in the back of his throat not entirely unlike a growl, curling his palm over Kurt’s hip, he allows himself to relax a little. Until he remembers exactly where they are.

He pulls away. “Um, not that this isn’t kind of awesome, but kissing guys on my front lawn is not going to make me popular with my neighbours. Can we move this inside?”

Puck gives him the slow smile that Kurt used to find kind of sleazy until it was directed at _him_ – it now makes all his internal organs whimper simultaneously, which is an interesting but not at all bad experience – and says: “fine by me.”

Kurt has barely gotten his front door shut when Puck is all over him, pushing him until his back is against the wall and then doing nothing short of attacking him with his mouth. Kurt can’t protest, doesn’t _want_ to protest, and just does his best to keep up, curling his fists in the back of Puck’s t-shirt and kissing him until neither of them can breathe. This is insane, this cannot actually be happening, Puck doesn’t even _like_ him as he has demonstrated repeatedly over the past few weeks, and yet clearly all that is wrong because Puck is kissing him like he never intends to do anything else ever.

They finally part for breath and just stare at each other in the half-dark of Kurt’s hallway, mouths wet and swollen, and Puck’s eyes widen slightly. Kurt waits for him to pull away, to freak out, but all Puck does is lean back in, trailing tiny kisses up his jaw until his mouth touches Kurt’s again.

“Jesus, Kurt,” Puck mumbles against his lips, “you have _no idea_ how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He kisses him again, pressing even closer to him, and Kurt wraps his arms around Puck, pulling him against him as hard as he can. “Wanted you ever since you blew that freaking solo, just wanted to touch you until you smiled again-”

Kurt jerks away so hard he actually whacks his head on the wall behind him and doesn’t even care. “ _What_.”

Puck frowns at him and tries to lean in and kiss him, but Kurt’s mind is going at about a mile a minute and he pushes him until Puck steps back. “What the hell-”

“I’m sorry,” Kurt says blankly, “you just said something that makes _absolutely no fucking sense at all_ , and I would like an explanation before you get anywhere near me again.”

Puck is still looking completely confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You just told me that you’ve wanted to kiss me since I threw the diva-off,” Kurt explains, wondering what about this Puck thinks is _ok_.

“Um, yeah?” Puck still isn’t getting it.

“This was back when you were still kind of actively bullying me and a long time before you decided to _set me and Finn up_ ,” Kurt tells him. “Does no part of that seem screwed-up to you?” Puck crosses his arms defensively, looking down at the floor, and says nothing at all. “I’m waiting,” Kurt adds after a moment.

“You’re actually gonna make me say it, aren’t you?” Puck grits out, and although he sounds kind of pissed he isn’t leaving, which Kurt takes as a good sign. He continues to look horrified and blank until Puck says, quickly and not looking at him: “look, I thought maybe if I got you together with Finn then I’d stop wanting you, ok?”

“Oh my God,” Kurt mutters. “What a good plan, because it’s not like Finn having stuff has _ever_ stopped you still wanting it, right?” His voice is just a shade hysterical and drenched in so much sarcasm the words are brittle. “You are so damaged.”

“You let me think you were dating Finn!” Puck snaps.

“You never asked!” Kurt protests. “Why the hell didn’t you have this conversation with Finn?”

“There wasn’t exactly an easy way to ask,” Puck shrugs, voice a little less confrontational.

“Yeah,” Kurt sighs, leaning back against the wall because he kind of needs the support. “I mean, it must be really difficult to ask your best friend if he’s screwing the school _fag_.”

Puck moves faster than Kurt can register, his hands clenching tight around Kurt’s upper arms. “Don’t call yourself that,” Puck says, soft and harsh.

“You were calling me that when apparently you were lusting after me,” Kurt shoots back, “I can call myself whatever the hell I want.”

“You’re better than that,” Puck tells him sharply, “and I’ve punched every single person who’s called you that in the last month, don’t have to make me punch you as well, Kurt.”

“Hummel.”

“ _Kurt_. Stop freaking out on me, ok?”

“You keep freaking out on _me_ ,” Kurt points out. “You kissed me and then you had your jock friends put me in the dumpster because I offended your masculinity.”

Puck lets go of him and looks almost awkward. “Uh... about that...”

“Oh God,” Kurt says, realisation dawning. “You just wanted me to _think_ I’d offended your masculinity so I wouldn’t work it out. Do you have any idea how stupid that is?”

“Yeah, ‘cause telling you to stop crushing on Finn and start crushing on me would’ve paid off just _great_ ,” Puck spits. “Why the hell are you so angry, Kurt? Can’t you just be flattered and we can go back to making out again?”

“I’ve just learned you’ve been lying to me all along!” Kurt protests. “And also that you’re kind of a masochist. It’s a lot to take in.”

Puck passes a hand over his face, looking harassed. “Look, I started out wanting to bang you and I thought maybe if I got you together with Finn then I wouldn’t want you anymore and then it turned out that you were kind of awesome and it was actually really difficult to get over you.”

Later, Kurt might actually be flattered about this. Right now, he’s too weirded out to do anything but stare.

“Um,” he says, “and it never occurred to you to try and be well-adjusted and have a conversation with _anyone_ about how I _wasn’t_ dating Finn?”

Puck shrugs. “I kind of thought I was being pretty obvious about my lame-ass pining.”

Something occurs to Kurt. “Can you excuse me for a minute?”

Puck is looking increasingly bemused and frustrated; he waves a vague hand. “Go ahead.”

Kurt pulls his iPhone from his pocket and calls Quinn. She picks up after three rings, and before she can speak he says: “how long have you known that Puck has a thing for me?”

There’s a momentary pause. “Like, maybe a month? A month and a half?” Quinn replies. “Anyway, I’m coming over to yours tomorrow night and so is Mercedes, and you need to own bacon because Puck’s mom totally won’t let me eat it and my baby really needs it.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this to me while I was pining over him in an emo fashion?” Kurt demands.

“I told you to get Rachel and Finn together,” Quinn responds, “which I’m imagining did the trick since you’re calling me now. Anyway, remember the bacon, ‘k?”

She hangs up on him. Kurt looks to Puck to find the other boy still has his arms folded and is staring at him. “You wanna ring Mercedes too? Maybe Brittany?”

“Brittany knew ages ago,” Kurt shrugs, “she just didn’t _know_ she knew. You kind of blew it with that ‘Congratulations On Being A Fag’ card.”

“I wouldn’t have used that word,” Puck tells him quickly. 

“Stop,” Kurt says quietly. “I get it. Because you knew me you have been changed for the better-”

“I think you’ll find the quote you’re looking for is that I have been changed ‘for good’,” Puck corrects him lightly.

Kurt sighs. “Stop being appealing and capable of quoting _Wicked_ at me, it’s making it hard to be angry and confused with you.” He frowns. “Also, _why_ can you quote _Wicked_ at me?”

“Uh, itunes?” Puck says. “I may have downloaded that whole stupid album at one point.” 

At this point, Kurt actually just wants to melt into a little puddle of helpless _want_ , but then reflects that, ok, Puck researched _Wicked_ for him, but he has been pining needlessly for all this time when Puck actually talking to anyone would have sorted all this out weeks ago. Also, he feels weirdly awkward knowing that Puck has liked him longer than Kurt has liked him back; there’s something strangely like guilt in his stomach, which is just plain ridiculous.

“So you think after lying to me all this time you can just come in and sweep me off my feet?” he asks.

Puck shrugs. “I’ve been laying the groundwork for forever.”

“You were trying to set me up with Finn!” Kurt protests.

“Yeah,” Puck says, like this is fine, “so I was nice to you _when I didn’t have to be_.”

“Oh dear lord,” Kurt says. “You are so fucked up.”

“I’ll sing,” Puck threatens. 

Puck should not be allowed to sing. It’s the reason he seems to have kissed about two-thirds of the glee club and has slept with half the girls in school and also most of their moms. He has like magical powers when he sings, and Mr Schue should really kick him out of glee for everyone’s personal safety and virtue and so forth. Some of these thoughts must cross Kurt’s face because Puck’s mouth splits into a smile.

“Can you stop bitching and just put your tongue back in my mouth already?” he asks.

“You are so obnoxious,” Kurt sighs. “Like, really obnoxious, and clearly emotionally unstable, and possibly still homophobic. And I’m totally not putting out until the third date, and I mean proper actual dates with going out and you paying for stuff and acting like you can have a real conversation like an actual person.”

“Second date and I’ll serenade you with _Bad Romance_ at the next glee rehearsal?” Puck suggests.

It occurs to Kurt that they’re haggling over his virginity and he honestly doesn’t even care. Some ridiculous, embarrassing, overwhelming bubble of happiness is rising in his chest.

“Deal,” he says. “Now get over here.”

Sometime later, when Puck has well and truly messed up Kurt’s hair and they’re both crammed onto the sofa in his basement, legs entangled and the muscles of Puck’s back shifting under Kurt’s palms, a thought occurs to him.

“Are you sure this wasn’t some huge elaborate plan on your part to make me realise that I had options other than Finn?”

“Dude,” Puck says, “if I had an actual plan to get you, it wouldn’t have involved you making out with Finn at _any_ point. Just me. Lots of making out with me. Like the making out we could be doing right now if you would just shut the hell up.”

“You have so many failings as a person,” Kurt says mournfully, even with his fingers running down the back of the mohawk, Puck leaning almost unconsciously into his touch. 

“It’s kind of sad how you don’t even care, isn’t it?” Puck remarks, leant over Kurt with this huge shit-eating grin that Kurt has the suspicion he is mirroring. Stupid happiness; it’s totally overrated as an emotion.

“Really sad,” Kurt agrees, and pulls him back down again.

**{end}**


End file.
